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THE CHRONICLES OF A 
GREAT PRINCE 



BOOKS BY MARGUERITE BRYANT 


The Heights 

A Courageous Marriage 

The Shadow of the Stone 

The Dominant Passion 

The Adjustment 

Anne Kempburn : Truth Seeker 

Felicity Crofton 

Christopher Hibbault : Roadmaker 


t 

THE CHRONICLES 

OF A 

GREAT PRINCE 


BY 

MARGUERITE BRYANT 
And 

GEORGE H. McANNALLY 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 

1924 




Jg4Z4 

Cl 


Copyright, 1924, by 
Duffield & Company 




Printed in U. S. A. 


OCT -3 rj^4 

©C1A807187 



/Y 


/ 


CONTENTS 


Chapter p AGE 

Introduction 

I. Mr. Carfax Accepts a Tutorship .... 3 

II. Mr. Carfax Makes Discoveries .... 16 

III. Prophetic Days.27 

IV. Tragedy and Ceremony.36 

V. Widening Horizons.53 

VI. The Deeds of Youth.65 

VII. Raphael.73 

VIII. The Adventure of the Brigands .... 82 

IX. Maria Lais.92 

X. Episodes.96 

XI. The Guild of St. Augustine.104 

XII. A Perilous Defence.125 

XIII. The Duchess of Alquarto.145 

XIV. Raphael’s Marriage.159 

XV. Fire and Smoke.164 

XVI. What Happened on an April Morning . 171 

XVII. Disaster and Again Disaster.192 

XVIII. The Diary of Queen Tessa.209 

XIX. The Cloud Lifts.221 

XX. 'A Bargain.234 

XXI. The Return of Raphael.244 

XXII. The Queen’s Diary Ends.253 

XXIII. A Woman Acts.264 

XIV. A Fatal Marriage.276 

XXV. A Crisis.286 

XXVI. The Revolution.299 

XXVII. Max.322 

XXVIII. To Save Her Crown!.334 




































4 
























DEDICATED TO 


PEGGY 

MICHAEL 

JOHN 

PATRICK 

RACHEL 


Dear Children :— 

If you are not now,—some of you!—too old to be so 
addressed—Here at last is the Book promised you so many 
years ago, when you were all of you really children. That 
it is, in many respects, a different book to the collection of 
stories which were your Chronicles and that it stops half 
way through the history that so enthralled you, is the fault, 
first, of your grown years, because what was of supreme in¬ 
terest to you once is of secondary interest to some of you 
now, and secondly to the fact that the long-suffering public 
after all have a right to a say in the matter and could not 
be expected to cope with the mass of material from which 
these Chronicles have been drawn. 

Still we hope you will find enough of what originally 
pleased you to take fresh pleasure in the printed page. We 
leave you in that hope. Accept 'The Chronicles’ with our 
love! 


M. B. and G. H. M. 
















THE CHRONICLES OF A 
GREAT PRINCE 


I 


INTRODUCTION 


ITOWEVER great a part Prince Paul d’Arenzano may 
have played in the drama of international politics at 
the beginning of the nineteenth century, very little effort has 
ever been made to study him apart from his work, or take 
into consideration the environment and education which 
produced so exceptional a man. 

These Chronicles are an attempt to remedy that injustice 
by a judicial opening up of family records, letters and 
journals written by friends or contemporaries, and recon¬ 
structing from these as far as lies in our power, a living 
portrait of the Great Prince. 

Since the editors are more concerned with presenting this 
portrait than with recording historical events, they have not 
scrupled at times to translate into narrative form the 
abundant if somewhat unwieldly mass of material they have 
collected, hoping by this means to humanize otherwise dreary 
matter and so to bring into sympathetic focus the lives, loves 
and fates of men, who having played their part well or ill, 
on the stage of life, have passed into the Unknown and left, 
it may be lesser men, to tread in their turn the boards they 
once filled with their presence and dominated with their 
personality. 


INTRODUCTION 


The part played by the English tutor, Henry Carfax, who 
controlled the most impressionable years of Prince d’Aren- 
zano’s life is so important that we may be pardoned if we 
commence by discovering how he came to fill his post and 
with what sort of mind he did so. Matters which are easily 
traceable in letters and notes belonging to the Rushford and 
Carfax families. 


The Chronicles of a Great Prince 


CHAPTER I 

MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 

I 

O UR earliest records of the d’Arenzano family, apart 
from family records themselves, are found in the letters 
and diaries of Henry Carfax, a young Englishman of ability 
and enterprise, who in the autumn of 1820 accepted the 
tutorship of the young counts of Arenzano, only, it appears 
after close perusal of his diaries, after long consideration 
and much persuasion. 

A cousin of Prince d’Arenzano’s, Count Everard d’Aren¬ 
zano, then attached to the Romanzian Legation in London, 
was responsible for the finding of Henry Carfax, and 
posterity is indebted to him for that find, for there is no 
doubt that Carfax’s own character, even more than his real 
scholarship, was largely responsible for the building up of 
the character of Paul d’Arenzano, our Great Prince. 

One gathers that Carfax’s reluctance to undertake the task 
was, in the first place, due to dislike of filling a subordinate 
position in the house of a foreign prince of however exalted 
a lineage. Orense itself, a small independent state with a 
distinct race, laws, customs of its own, was still linked in 

3 


4 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


the mind of Europe, for all practical purposes, with Roman- 
zia, that once powerful, but now (in 1820) degenerate 
country. 

The second reason for Carfax’s reluctance seems to have 
been the very doubtful character which Count Everard gave 
his young relations. They were, by his account, confirmed 
tutor-breakers, having had five tutors in two years. Car- 
fax evidently pictured them as arrogant young cubs, and 
probably vicious, though we gather the Count refused to 
tabulate either their virtues or their vices, only assuring 
Carfax that they had their share of intellect. 

But the salary offered was princely; Carfax spoke Roman- 
zian fairly well, owing to a Romanzian friend at Oxford, 
and \n the end Count Everard prevailed, and Carfax found 
himself towards the end of September, 1820, enroute for 
Orense. 

II 

Travelling in those days was no luxurious affair of trains 
de luxe and 'wagon-lits’. Europe was slowly coming to a 
state of equilibrium after her tempestuous years of war. 
Still, provided one had money, there was no special danger in 
travelling, whatever the discomforts might be, judged by 
modern standards. 

Carfax found himself descending from his last stage at 
a small inn perched on the shoulder of a pine-clad hill. 

In the rough paved court before the inn, some saddle 
horses were waiting, and on the wooden outside staircase, 
two white-clad figures were lounging. They watched with 
unmoved faces as the ponderous coach swung into the court¬ 
yard and the few passengers for Foresti, the little frontier 
village of Orense, descended. 

As Carfax looked round him curiously, the two figures 
came forward. 


MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 


5 


“Mr. Carfax?” questioned the elder one. 

Carfax bowed. 

“We rode over to meet you. I am Paul d’Arenzano, and 
this is my brother, Raphael.” 

Carfax had just sufficient assurance not to betray his 
amazement, for amazed he was. Nothing had prepared him 
for either the size or appearance of his pupils. 

They stood gravely surveying each other, neither party 
betraying the least embarrassment at the mutual scrutiny. 

On the one hand they saw the well set up figure of a man 
with a keen, resolute, if rugged face. He was in riding 
dress, for he knew the last part of his journey would be in 
the saddle. The younger of his two inspectors ran over 
the details of his dress with approval in his brown eyes; the 
elder boy met his glance with a certain calm interest, as one 
who measures swords with an adversary. 

But Carfax saw something very different. The boys— 
for they were no more in years, being thirteen and fourteen 
respectively—were remarkably tall. They had the manners 
and assurance of full age and yet conveyed a sense of breed¬ 
ing that ill-fitted with Carfax’s mental images of two young 
barbarians. But it was their surprising good looks that over¬ 
threw his first judgment of them. Superficially they were 
alike, but Carfax was not a superficial observer and he 
discerned the difference almost as soon as he perceived the 
likeness. Both were tall, but Paul, the elder, was more than 
tall. He was built on the scale of big men and might easily 
have passed for seventeen. There was nothing clumsy in 
his bigness, and it was disguised by his just proportions and 
easy carriage. His finely cut features were strong and 
masterful, and his dark eyes curiously compelling. 

The boy breathed an air of arrogance and authority that 
was a danger signal for the future which his slightly formal 
courtesy did not disguise. 


6 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Raphael was perhaps two inches shorter than his brother. 
His agile form had the grace and easy movement of some 
wild animal, his eyes were surprisingly alert and Carfax 
fancied he saw a faint mockery lurking in their depth. His 
manner was disarming, with none of the arrogance of the 
elder boy, but displaying an innocent candor which did not 
altogether set Carfax at his ease, since his knowledge of 
youth was wide and accurate. 

Once free from observing eyes, the boys’ horses showed 
a restlessness that would have been disconcerting to unac¬ 
customed riders. Carfax saw, however, that his pupils were 
quite equal to the occasion, so merely kept a watch on his 
own steed, without offering any remark on the behavior of 
the others. By and by they also took to quieter ways and he 
intercepted a meaning glance between his escort. 

On the other side of the ridge behind the frontier village 
the ground descended again, crossing a fertile plain dotted 
with small villages, and beyond the plain there rose, ridge 
upon ridge, the vast forests of Orense; clothing the lower 
slopes of the mountain range, which shut in the country like 
a wall on the east; belted with pine and skirted with oak and 
beech, trailing olives on its lower slopes, while on its highest 
summits the snow still lingered, though it was late spring. 

The boys rode on each side of Carfax, talking volubly 
and pressing the conversation which way they would. They 
asked innumerable questions concerning the customs in Eng¬ 
lish schools, his own tastes and predilections. Carfax’s 
replies were cautiously worded and now and again he got 
in a question of his own. 

The day was hot and he was not sorry when the road 
entered the forest and they reached a higher, cooler level. 
It was unspeakably beautiful and for a time the boys were 
silent. It was Raphael who spoke first. He had been 
watching Carfax’s horse anxiously. 


MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 


7 


“Anything wrong?” asked the rider carelessly. 

“Oh no. Senecarib is going splendidly today—only he 
had just that expression when-” he hesitated. 

“Yes?” demanded Carfax politely. 

“When he turned and bit Monsieur Mancara right through 
the boot. I should not like it to happen to you, but perhaps 
you are not afraid of horses ?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Monsieur Mancara was. He was afraid of many 
things.” A beatific smile crossed his face. 

“Was he your last tutor?” 

“ Yes.” A pause. “He committed suicide last spring.” 

At this startling news Carfax glanced at Paul, who was 
gazing straight ahead with an unmoved face. 

“Indeed? How sad,” remarked the new tutor evenly. 
“And have you done no work since?” 

“Father Clement has given us some instruction,” put in 
Paul suddenly, “but there is not much time for work here, 
you know.” 

“I can well believe it with such a forest close at hand.” 

“Don’t go exploring the forest alone,” said Raphael hastily, 
“or you’ll get eaten by wolves.” 

“I’ll be careful.” 

“Raphael’s not joking”—this from Paul sharply. “A 
mile farther is the Great Barrier and beyond that to the top 
of the mountains it’s all wolf preserves. It’s safe for the 
keepers or anyone who knows, but not for strangers.” 

“What an odd thing to preserve,” murmured Carfax. 

Paul shot a haughty glance at the utterer of an implied 
criticism. 

“We have preserved wolves for sport since 1660. The 
barrier was put up in our gradfather’s time. There was a 
bad winter and the wolves got a lot of people and lastly a 
son of the house, so they shut them in. Every year we shoot 


8 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


so many to keep the numbers down. It’s grand sport, but we 
are not allowed to go till we are seventeen.” 

Carfax’s eyes travelled over Paul, whose fourteen years 
seemed of such extenuated length. 

They stopped once to rest their horses by a little rushing 
stream and then Paul, who had been silent for a long time, 
remarked, “It’s shorter across the plain but it’s insufferably 
hot.” 

“And we thought you would like to see the forest,” put 
in Raphael. 

“It’s worth seeing,” said Carfax quietly. 

The moderation of his remark won their approval. He 
had not committed the error of rhapsodizing over their be¬ 
loved country and he appeared to have forgotten the exist¬ 
ence of wolves, both faults which former gentlemen had 
committed on like occasions; neither had he betrayed annoy¬ 
ance over the lengthened route. 

Their Cousin Everard’s protege started with marks to the 
good, though they only qualified him as an enemy not to be 
despised. 

In a few minutes they came out on a green clearing, and 
there before them lay the Castle of Aranzano. 

Ill 

It stood on a grassy eminence, round which, on two sides 
the stream’s noisy waters found placid harborage in a wide 
moat. On three sides the forest came within a thousand 
yards of the green space, and there stopped abruptly as if 
an enchanter’s wand had set a magic barrier to its riotous 
growth. 

The Castle itself was a grim building of tower and turret, 
curtain wall and bastion, with an immense gateway between 
two towers. To the left was a bigger solitary tower, reached 


MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 


9 


now from the outside by a separate bridge and a little arched 
door that looked absurdly inadequate in the vast grey space 
of wall. From a turret a flag hung motionless about its 
staff. 

There were few windows looking out to the entrance, 
and these were mostly narrow slits, cutting the greyness like 
pointed arrows. 

The whole place seemed asleep in the warm spring sun¬ 
light. A grey memorial of immemorial things, of strength, 
endurance, unchangeableness and remoteness. 

The two silent figures on each side of Carfax watched 
with furtive anxiety. Their very silence was eloquent, 
seeming to mock him, saying, “Do you think to bring your 
two-penny ideals to roost here, to turn our ways to suit 
your ridiculous island prejudices ?” 

They had reined up. The action had been involuntary on 
the part of Carfax and it was he who first moved his horse 
and looked at the elder boy. 

“It looks like a place that has sent men into the world.” 

It was his sole remark, and he saw under the tanned skin 
of the boy a scarlet flush and a gleam of emotion, gone almost 
as soon as it came, leaving the arrogant, almost insolent pride 
dominant; but it taught Carfax in what that pride had root. 
He ceased for the present to resent it. 

They rode in at the great gates. Within, was a vast 
courtyard doubtless once crowded with buildings but now 
clear and void. 

On the western side was the living house, evidently re¬ 
modelled in the last two hundred years. There were a 
range of pointed windows, and here and there a stone carved 
balcony jutted out. The great hall of entrance occupied the 
center of this house and was approached by a wide flight of 
steps. Here was the first sign of life. 

Two small boys, some servants, and a great variety of 


10 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


dogs awaited them. Two grooms came forward to take the 
horses. The bigger of the two boys was dancing on the 
lowest step in enthusiastic excitement. 

“What a time you have been, Paul! Is this the English¬ 
man? How do you do, Mr. Carfax.” 

“Be quiet, Baby.” Paul dealt the obstreperous young 
person a light box on the ears. “Mr. Carfax, these are my 
younger brothers. This is Sylvestro and that is Damien.” 

The youngest boy came down the steps slowly, surveying 
the new tutor critically as he did so. The two boys were a 
remarkable contrast. Sylvestro, even at that age, was a 
clumsy replica of Paul minus his assurance and gravity. He 
seemed brimming over with vitality, and good-humor smiled 
from his merry dark eyes. Undaunted by the brotherly 
rebuke, he hung on Paul’s arm and watched the newcomer 
with a friendly smile. 

Damien held out his hand. His aloofness was as distinct 
from Sylvestro’s demonstrativeness as was his appearance. 
Here were the fair hair and dark eyes of Count Everard, 
but here also were the curiously fine features of the elder 
boys, emphasized even in the nine-year-old face, as if Nature 
till then had been merely trying what she could do in the 
way of fashioning beauty, and had at last brought her ex¬ 
periments to a satisfactory conclusion. 

In manner Damien was just aloof and courteous with a 
courtesy that matched oddly with his few years. 

They went up the steps together, and a servant waiting 
at the top hurried forward with a silver salver in his hand. 

To him—in the patois —Paul called out fiercely and 
rapidly a command to go and take his silly head with him, 
and the man vanished with a half hidden smile. Raphael 
visibly brightened, Damien gazed at Paul with a heightened 
color and Sylvestro called out: 

“But Paul, why—?” 


MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 


11 


“Silence, little fool!” came in the swift soft patois again, 
and then to Carfax in his clear Romanzian. 

“Will you wish to see my mother at once, or go straight to 
your room, Mr. Carfax?” 

Carfax decidedly preferred to remove the traces of travel 
before encountering any more of the family; moreover he 
wanted time to arrange his thoughts. 

The four solemnly escorted him across the immense hall, 
at one end of which a great black staircase of chestnut wood 
wound up in a double flight to a stone gallery. At the oppo¬ 
site end of the hall was a fireplace where even on this warm 
spring day a fire flickered. 

The hall was so large that Carfax had quite a shock when 
they left the wide gallery, that ran over the entrance doors, 
and plunged into narrow dark passages full of inequalities, 
and with bare stone walls. 

The passages led in the end to his own apartment and the 
abode of the two elder boys, situated in a tower at the south¬ 
west angle of the Castle, the three floors of the tower and the 
connecting wing being entirely given over to him and his 
charges. 

He was ushered into his room, the heavy door closed and 
he was at last alone to sort out his ideas and prepare for the 
still more formidable task of meeting Prince and Princess 
d’Arenzano. 

IV 

At the foot of the staircase the boys discussed the new 
arrival with freedom and animation. 

“But Paul,” insisted Sylvestro, ready to dodge possible 
chastisement, “why did you do it?” 

“Do what?” 


12 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Not do it, Baby means,” drawled Raphael, “the Service, 
that is. You had not said it was to be missed.” 

“It would have left us no chance,” growled the elder 
brother, rather sulkily. 

“You gave Mancara the Bread and Salt,” remarked 
Damien. 

Paul flashed round on him. 

“This Englishman is no Mancara. It will be no job for 
you babies, this time. Keep out of it. Raphael and I will 
manage—if he is to go.” 

“Oh, do you think he mayn’t?” chimed in Sylvestro, 
eagerly. “I hope not, he looks so nice.” 

Raphael interposed. 

“You mind what Paul says and attend to your own busi¬ 
ness. Be off!” 

The two younger boys obediently betook themselves to 
their own devices and the elder remained talking quietly; 
they said nothing at first of what was in their minds, till 
suddenly Raphael remarked: 

“He’s worth testing anyhow.” 

Paul grinned. 

“We’ll do that. We can now, that’s why I didn’t give him 
the Service. I wanted to feel free.” 

V 

On the west and inhabited side of the Castle were two 
terraces, and below them a drop of thirty feet to the wide 
meadow land which stretched away to the silver placid 
waters of a distant lake. Beyond that were lower slopes of 
forest and then the sunset! 

Here on the terrace, Princess d’Arenzano walked with 
Henry Carfax. 

If Carfax’s first recorded impressions of that remarkable 


MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 


13 


woman are as trustworthy as the rest of his careful records, 
they are perhaps worth giving. The implied doubt reflects 
no discredit on Carfax, but though nothing in his life be¬ 
trays it, there remains an impression that the cool-headed 
young man of twenty-five never quite regarded Princess 
d’Arenzano with that spirit of detached criticism which he 
accorded to other women. The only evidence, however, in 
his writing lies in the complete lack of such criticism and a 
very careful record of all her speech with him. 

Here on the terrace they walked on the evening of June 
4th, 1817, Carfax secretly wondering that so young and 
beautiful a woman should be the mother of those four great 
boys. 

“She took me out on the terrace,” he writes, “and in the 
open air I thought her even more beautiful than indoors. 
From her Raphael gets his vivid coloring and sparkling eyes. 
There is a subtle graciousness about her that balances her 
quick gestures, and above all I judge her to be a woman of 
intellect, clever, far-sighted and capable of a wide point of 
view. She is a Romanzian. One feels she has only absorbed 
just so much of this atmosphere as was necessary for her 
happiness, and in return has distilled into the grim ghosts 
of tradition something of her own living personality. I 
judge her, too, to be a happy woman; she spoke much of her 
sons, and her desire that they should be well-educated men. 
‘We are so remote from the world here,’ she remarked, ‘that 
it is doubly needful to train their intellects. The d’Arenzanos 
at least have never been mere stupid brigands, but my boys 
must be able to see beyond their own mountains and forests! 

“ ‘You will find them worth your time, Mr. Carfax. Paul 
is difficult, I admit it. He has great strength of mind beyond 
his years. Raphael, I believe to be brilliant if he can get 
steady tuition. He follows Paul’s lead in everything, I fear, 
and Paul, dear fellow, is a little head-strong!’ 


14 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“She apologized for the absence of her husband, saying 
that he was at Melino, which is their capital and the only 
town of any size in the province, with the exception of 
Courno. 

“Also she told me that they very seldom went to Cardozza. 

“ ‘Orense is generally sufficient for us and though I am 
a Romanzian, I have my reasons for disliking Cardozza 
these days/ 

“She sighed.” 

Carfax must have known enough of Romanzian politics 
to understand what was implied, and how the mean ingrati¬ 
tude of King Ferdinand II. towards those who had saved his 
throne when Europe was rocking to dissolution had estranged 
from him all the oldest Romanzian families, so that they 
avoided both the Government and the social life of the 
capital. 

It was night before Prince d’Arenzano appeared and 
Carfax records the final impression of his disconcerting day 
with his usual clarity. 

“I suppose I cannot honestly say,” he writes, “that Count 
Everard described his brother to me in misleading terms, 
yet I had got in my mind a picture of an elderly corpulent 
gentleman too lazy to rule his own household. But Prince 
Victor is six feet two, and carries his height with such ease 
that it is unobtrusive. He has the same vivacious and rest¬ 
less energy as Sylvestro. He appears indeed a kindly simple 
soul, very desirous of doing all that is expected of him by 
his gracious lady, and the obligations of his name. He is 
clearly adored by his family, who mingle their respectful 
bearing towards him with a quaint pride, which induces them 
to show him off much as if he were a clever child. 

“We supped together in a big plainly furnished room, the 
two elder boys with us, and afterwards the Prince took me 


MR. CARFAX ACCEPTS A TUTORSHIP 15 


into the hall and we sat in one of the windows and discussed 
my pupils. 

“ ‘They are good boys,’ he told me, ‘though I can’t manage 
them, or so my brother says. He advises me to give you a 
free hand. Do what you like with them so long as you 
make them honest men. As to brains,—we have never been 
accounted fools—except myself!’ he added with a deprecating 
air which was disarming, ‘but then I was never born to be 
the reigning prince. That was all through politics and the 
French!’ 

“I remembered that both his father and his brother had 
been shot for trying to stem the tide of Bonaparte’s march 
against the Allies. 

“He looked out of the window into the gathering dark 
and presently went on. 

“ ‘I daresay you in England think of us as half barbarians, 
but we are not that. We have our own customs and laws, 
and as a race we have a fair record and I want my boys to 
sustain it. Times are changing and what did for the rest of 
us, won’t do for the future.’ 

“Again he broke off abruptly. 

“ ‘Don’t let them gamble. It’s in the blood and it’s bad for 
us. You’ll manage them I can see—besides Everard says 
so. The English have a way with the young! Paul’s all 
right, but Raphael is the very devil!’ ” 

Carfax left no notes as to whether his first impressions 
coincided with the mother or the father’s estimate of their 
sons. It would, however, be like Carfax to preserve an open 
mind on the matter. 


CHAPTER II 


MR. CARFAX MAKES DISCOVERIES 

I 

T HE first days were spent in exploring the place and 
getting accustomed to the life there. Of all this Car- 
fax has left such abundant records that the difficulty of 
selection is considerable. 

There was the Castle itself, with its great Armory and 
Muniment Rooms, its vast stables, the foresters’ court, 
where lived the dogs and hounds, falcons, guns, and all the 
paraphernalia of abundant sport, and where a retinue of 
keepers came and went. 

There was the Hall of Justice in the old Keep itself, with 
the little yard behind, where punishments were meted out 
in carefully measured gradation. Cells, pillory and whip¬ 
ping post, all still in use, and part of the old inviolate Law! 

“We have no executions here now,” Paul explained: “that 
only happens at Melino.” 

“Father made that change,” commented Raphael, with a 
regretful sigh. “That’s the Ring,” he went on, pointing out 
two iron rings in a wall about the height of a man’s shoulder 
from the ground. “That’s the penalty for breaking any 

16 


MR. CARFAX MAKES DISCOVERIES 


17 


forest law: so many hours with one’s arm fastened up like 
that.” He thrust his arm through the larger ring. Both 
rings were secured by a bolt and would hold a man’s arm 
extended in such a way that he was a complete prisoner. 

Carfax examined it carefully. He thought it a cruel idea, 
but was at pains not to say so. Adverse criticism of their 
manners or customs was badly received. 

He soon ceased to wonder at Paul’s arrogance. The 
young Prince of Melino (his correct title) was treated with 
a deference and respect that might have turned the head of 
the humblest boy. There was only one command and one 
word superior to his own and that was his father’s. 

The forest Carfax got to know bit by bit. It was to the 
whole of Orense what the sea is to a maritime country. It 
called to its children with mysterious voices, it soothed their 
sorrows, sympathized with revolt, and added to joy. In its 
higher regions it gave out the very spirit of healing and 
no d’Arenzano could imagine recovery away from its em¬ 
brace. They seldom talked of it, but its spell lay over their 
lives from the hour of birth to the hour of death. This 
applied not only to the reigning family but to all the hardy 
independent race of foresters who lived in and round its 
vast depths, who could find their way across it by instinctive 
touch and who drew from it their substance and made it the 
field of their labors. 

The wolf-barrier Carfax found to be a real thing. The 
law forbade a married man to live there and Carfax’s young 
charges were never allowed to go singly into its depths. Yet 
on mountain expeditions, they would plunge gaily through 
the most wolf-ridden regions and Carfax went for several 
such excursions before he saw a wolf. 

In the late autumn and winter, there were the famous wolf 
drives, besides which the glory of all other sport paled. On 
these occasions, with certain formalities and much excite- 


18 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


ment, the Prince and his friends destroyed a sufficient num¬ 
ber of wolves to keep the packs within manageable limits 
during the cold and hungry months. 

Those first days must have been as full of interest as 
minutes. Carfax allowed himself to be shown all and told 
all—and more than all he often suspected—by the boys. 
They seem to have had wit enough to discern beneath his 
calm acceptance of their wonders, his very real interest. 

It remained to be proved whether he were also a man to 
be obeyed and respected, or their dupe who would leave them 
to order their lives as they would, so long as they performed 
just so much or so little work as their active young brains 
chose to assimilate and as he in his capacity as paid tutor 
could with decency accept. 


II 

Carfax quickly found that their intellectual ability was of 
no mean order and he determined to exploit it to the full as 
soon as he could gain their confidence, but that was a slow 
and tedious business. 

There followed days and weeks of tortuous discoveries, 
silent struggles of will, and perilous moments when swift 
judgment and decision were all that stood between him and 
defeat. 

Outwardly the boys were polite and courteous, but under 
their youthful suavity, Carfax felt them watching him, ready 
to seize on the least mistake and ever setting pitfalls in his 
way. He understood well enough that they regarded him 
as on probation and he meant to win. 

Those were days when the 'young’ of most countries re¬ 
ceived scant consideration at the hands of their elders. 
Prompt obedience was the one cardinal virtue by which 
youthful reputations rose or fell. In such manner had 


MR. CARFAX MAKES DISCOVERIES 


19 


Carfax himself been reared, but he was an exceptional man, 
years ahead of his generation. He foresaw that moral and 
intellectual education must go hand in hand, and were the 
stepladder by which the troubled world might rise to higher 
things. This boy, Prince Paul d’Arenzano, had it in him to 
be a leader of men by tradition, by temperament, and by 
natural ambition. It was for Carfax to lay the foundations 
of such a career and to clear away the obstructions that 
position, adulation and inborn pride had accumulated on the 
good ground. How far he was successful these pages will 
show! 

Another difficulty which beset these early days was Car- 
fax’s ignorance of the laws and customs, medieval, unex¬ 
pected and inviolate that fenced in their lives. They chafed 
him sorely at first, but little by little with the help of Cellino 
he came to see that it was these very laws which had been the 
sole barrier between Orense and a complete barbarism that 
might have justified any over-lord in sweeping away the 
little state with its semi-independence and stiff pride into 
the limbo of forgotten things. He learned that the laws 
were just and well administered, the customs of practical 
value and the traditions a fence against a dangerous liberty. 

To be transported from the prosaic atmosphere of Eng¬ 
land of those days where the romantic school had not yet 
overthrown the cold artificial age of reason and logic into 
this very hot-bed of romanticism required the quintessence 
of adaptability, and Carfax was not by nature adaptable. 
Happily he preserved a sufficiently well balanced reason to 
recognize the existence of forces whose effect on himself 
might be negligible. 

Ill 

The boys were of such utterly different character that 


20 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Carfax seems to have found great difficulty in awarding just 
punishments, as what was suitable in one case would prove 
totally inefficient in the other. His diary is full of details 
of such struggles. But one attempt brought about a revela¬ 
tion which is not without bearing in Prince Paul’s future 
and is therefore worth recording here. 

Raphael had gone out with his mother and Paul chose that 
afternoon to be particularly unruly. In the end Carfax de¬ 
cided to try the effect of solitary confinement and imprisoned 
him in a small room on the ground floor of the tower where 
their apartments were and which was used for the storing 
of such sporting implements as were not in use. It was 
lighted merely by a small grating high up, and at that season 
was nearly empty. 

Having thus secured a little respite to himself, Carfax 
took a book and enjoyed his ease till dusk had settled to dark. 
He did not think it would hurt Paul to meditate on his sins 
till supper-time. Presently Raphael returned. Carfax heard 
him run up to Paul’s room, calling his brother, and he went 
out to him in the passage. 

“You can’t see Paul,” he said quickly. “I’ve put him in 
solitary confinement till supper-time.” 

In the meagre light of the passage lamp, Carfax saw 
Raphael’s face change. 

“Where have you put him? He’s not in his room?” he 
said sharply. 

Carfax prepared to withdraw with cold disapproval but 
the boy sprang forward. 

“He’s not anywhere where he’s not got a light ?” he cried 
with sudden fear. “You can’t do that with Paul, you know 
—leave him without a light.” 

Carfax prepared to close the door and was prevented. 

“You don’t understand, sir,” said Raphael, making des¬ 
perate efforts to speak respectfully as the quickest way to 


MR. CARFAX MAKES DISCOVERIES 


21 


get his ends. “Paul is never left in the dark. It’s—it— 
he can’t help it. It’s because of my mother and the caves. 
You must give him a light at once. Where is he? Be 
quick!” 

Carfax still hesitated. There was no disputing the boy’s 
agitation, but it sounded a preposterous story. However, 
the mention of the Princess decided him. He felt sure even 
Raphael would not make jokes about his mother. 

“Paul is in the sports room,” he began, but Raphael 
rushed off. 

He heard him clatter down the stairs and followed more 
slowly. Raphael was shaking the door and calling out: 

“Paul, Paul! It’s all right, we are bringing a light. Don’t 
be a silly.” Then over his shoulder to Carfax, “Open the 
door, quick!” 

Carfax did so, his face rather grim and angry. Raphael 
rushed in and flung himself down beside the prostrate figure 
of his brother. Carfax unhooked the little lamp that hung 
on the wall outside, and went in. Raphael was talking to his 
brother as he might have talked to a baby, half scolding him 
and half coaxing him. 

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Carfax heard him whisper; 
“He’s a beast, of course, but he didn’t know! It wasn’t really 
very dark, was it?” 

Paul sat up suddenly and leaned against the wall. His 
face looked white and strained, and was covered with perspir¬ 
ation. He looked at Carfax through the uncertain light of 
the little lamp and smiled crookedly: 

“Sorry I’m such an idiot, sir,” he said ruefully, “but I 
always hope I won’t be. It’s such a beastly stupid thing to 
be afraid of the dark!” 

“It isn’t your fault,” began Raphael, but Carfax inter¬ 
rupted him. He took them both to his room, gave Paul 


22 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


some brandy, for he was still shaking, and sent Raphael 
away, much against that young gentleman's will. 

“Now,” said Carfax, in a friendly tone, “are you going 
to tell me about it yourself, or would you rather I asked 
someone else?” 

“No, don’t ask anyone,” Paul spoke hurriedly. “It might 
get round to her—I’d rather tell you. You’ve never been 
to the caves of Monastro yet, have you? k We don’t often go. 
They are right up in Monte Argon, and they go miles and 
miles, a sort of labyrinth of passages. All the same it’s a 
beautiful bit of country outside, and the air is supposed to 
be very good; and one day before I was born, my father 
took my mother up there, because she had been sleeping 
badly. There was a forester’s hut there, where one could 
stay. One day he went after a boar and left her alone, and 
she wandered into the caves—and she—got lost.” He 
faltered a moment and then went on more hurriedly: “Of 
course, they found her all right in the end, and she was 
awfully brave over it and seemed to forget it, but just before 
I was born the fear of it came back to her, and so—some¬ 
how it seems to have got into me. Even as a baby they say 
I screamed in the dark. As long as there’s a bit of light— 
even a star—it’s all right, but when there’s nothing—” 
Again he stopped and mopped his face with his handkerchief. 
“It’s awfully stupid. I’m always hoping I’ve grown out of 
it, but apparently I’ve not.” 

“It was hardly fair to me, not to have told me,” said Car- 
fax quietly. 

“I suppose I should—but I’m not particularly proud of it. 
You can put me in prison if you like so long as I have a 
light; it’s beastly enough even then.” 

He rose and stood waiting a moment. Carfax wondered 
if he were going to apologize for his original behavior but 
he only added nervously: 


MR. CARFAX MAKES DISCOVERIES 


23 


“We never say anything to remind my mother of the 
caves. She doesn’t mind darkness.” 

“I understand,” returned Carfax gravely. “You shall 
have a light next time. Good night!” 

Ill 

In the end Carfax gained the confidence and friendship 
for which he fought very completely and a handsome ac¬ 
knowledgement of the fact from his autocratic young 
charges. 

We will give the incident straight from his diary. 

“July 5th. 

“Today has been one of adventures! Happily with no 
worse result than a sprained wrist for Paul and a stiff 
shoulder for me. It was a half Monday and we set out to 
climb the nearest ridge of Mount Argon. 

“On our return journey our track crossed the face of a 
steep grassy slope that overhung a deep gorge. I was lead¬ 
ing, Paul in the middle and Raphael behind. It is only by 
grace of my Alpine experiences that I am permitted to lead, 
for the boys are careful and expert climbers as a rule, es¬ 
pecially Paul. As we crossed the slope, one or the other of 
them shouted something to me and I, with unpardonable care¬ 
lessness, half turned, slipped and slithered down the slope, 
jerking Paul off his feet. By a miracle of instinct Raphael 
sprang behind a jutting-out rock and thus set the strain on 
the rope on something more substantial than his slim self. 

“It was an unpleasant situation and in the amazing silence 
of the mountain side it seemed hours rather than moments 
while I figured it out. 

“I had slipped to the very edge of the slope and was half 
hanging over the lip; a small heather bush had checked my 
slide. Paul, above me, was practically spread-eagled out on 


24 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


his back with the rope pinning down his right arm. Raphael, 
still on the track, was bracing himself against the rock, and 
the rock and he had to hold the dead weight of two men, for 
Paul weighs every bit as much as I do. 

“The question resolved itself into the problem as to 
whether Paul could free himself from the rope and climb up 
again. I found we were discussing this coolly when the pos¬ 
sibility was shattered by Paul saying quietly, ‘My left wrist’s 
sprained or broken; I can’t use it at all.’ 

“I made an effort to move myself, but only succeeded in 
dragging Paul a foot lower and cutting into his arm with the 
rope. So for another moment that was of hours’ duration, 
we hung there. Then Raphael said in an expressionless 
voice: ‘The rope is fraying!’ 

“That settled it. There was only one possible thing to do. 
I got out my knife and began cutting the rope between Paul 
and myself. He could not see me, being on his back, and 
Raphael, who could, had the sense to hold his tongue. How¬ 
ever I had to warn Paul at the last in case the sudden release 
from my weight dislodged him further. He shouted a 
frenzied command at me not to be a fool, that he’d make 
another effort, but Raphael’s eyes were on the rope where it 
crossed the rock and he said, ‘If you move all three of us 
will go.’ My knife settled the matter. I slipped over the 
edge, grasped the heather bush, which held my weight for a 
moment, and then as I fell I saw below me, not the narrow, 
deep gorge, but a little plateau of grass overhung by the lip of 
the steep slope above. The margin was very narrow but 
enough. I pitched on to my shoulder, nearly rolled over the 
edge and then sat up and shouted. 

“I soon scrambled to a position where I could see the boys. 
Free from the strain of the rope, Paul had turned on his 
face and lay there quite still, in spite of the clear and emphatic 
directions hurled at him from Raphael. I added my advice 


MR. CARFAX MAKES DISCOVERIES 


25 


and presently he responded and climbed back with some 
difficulty. I had at last the satisfaction of seeing them both 
standing on the track and Raphael tying up his brother’s 
wrist with a grimy handkerchief. It was less pleasant to 
watch them finish the crossing of the slope, but that once 
accomplished I myself proceeded on the downward way ac¬ 
cording to directions given me by Raphael. At length the 
character of the gorge altered and we were able, after a stiff 
climb, to join forces again. None of us had much to say; 
my shoulder was extremely uncomfortable and I’ve little 
doubt Paul’s wrist was the same. He said when we reached 
the Castle that he would get old Martin, the head ranger, to 
do it up, Martin being the general surgeon for small mis¬ 
haps. Then he stopped and held out his hand to me: T 
sha’n’t forget,’ he said rather unsteadily and went off, 
Raphael following. I went in to report the matter to the 
Prince before an exaggerated version got to his ears. He 
was exceedingly matter of fact about it. 

“In the evening, however, when I too had recourse to Mar¬ 
tin to get my shoulder seen to, I had more to contend with. 
One would have thought I had saved the life of every forest¬ 
er’s son at the expense of my own! 

“July 6th. 

“The sequel to our mountain adventure is curious. I was 
returning from a visit to Cellino today when, on reaching 
the entrance steps, I found my two boys waiting for me and 
Raphael carried in his hand a silver salver. 

“Paul came forward slowly and with some embarrassment. 

“ ‘Mr. Carfax,’ he said. ‘You were never offered The 
Service when you came. Raphael and I would like to make 
that good now, if you’ll accept it.’ 

“I was puzzled but I said I would accept anything they 
wished. 

“Paul took the silver dish from his brother. There was 


26 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


a small piece of bread and some salt on it, and he offered it 
to me with these words: 

“ ‘To the Guest of the House, be the protection of the 
House, by all the House! See you to that!’ 

“The last words were addressed to Raphael with a gesture 
of command which the other acknowledged. 

“I ate the bread and salt as directed and Raphael dis¬ 
appeared with the salver. 

“Paul and I looked at each other. 

“ ‘Can I have an explanation ?’ I asked. 

“ ‘You ought to have received it when you came sir, as is 
the custom,’ he said getting rather red, ‘but my father was 
away and we didn’t know what you would be like and— 
and it tied our hands you see,—so-’ 

“ ‘And they are tied now ?’ I asked. 

“A pause. 

“ ‘You tied them yesterday—forever,’ he said slowly and 
gravely. I glimpsed behind the boy, struggling with a 
difficult situation, the man who would always rise to the 
occasion, and I knew there would have been no other possible 
thing to be done yesterday by any man. Paul has the future 
before him.” 

Carfax having won the full confidence of his pupils, set 
to work to make his prognostications of Paul’s future good. 
Here he was ably backed by the Princess. The two seem 
to have made a silent compact and bent all their powers to 
building a causeway for the ambitious feet they sought to 
guide. 



CHAPTER III 


PROPHETIC DAYS 

I 

D URING Carfax's first year at Arenzano he did not re¬ 
turn to England but stayed the round of the months at 
the Castle and apparently found no satiety in the life. 

One holiday, however, he went to Cardozza with the 
Prince and there discovered that the hereditary vice of the 
family at which Prince d’Arenzano had hinted at their first 
meeting was true enough. The d’Arenzanos were all born 
gamblers and Victor d’Arenzano might easily have headed 
the list for reckless play, but for the restraining influence of 
his wife. There were times, however, when she found her 
power weakening and, rather than strain the leash, she would 
then leave him free for the moment to follow his mood and to 
indulge in a bout of play that was the cause of much re¬ 
joicing in the gay circles of Cardozza society. 

“My boys ought never to touch a card," he told Carfax 
one evening. “Indeed they are supposed not to. I thrash 
them well if I find them at it, but they’ll play all the same 
when they grow up. Raphael will keep hold of himself per¬ 
haps, but Paul will be like myself, keep out of it for months 

27 


28 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


and then gamble with the cinders in hell rather than with 
nothing!” 

He began stuffing a prodigious quantity of gold and notes 
into his pockets. Carfax watched him curiously. 

“That's a fair provision,” he remarked. 

“Ah, that’s our saving tradition! We can only play for 
cash down. It’s a beastly nuisance but there it is!” 

“Then there is something stronger than the cards!” Car- 
fax remarked with a smile. 

Again the Prince laughed and shook his head. 

“I don’t know how that is but Cellino will tell you—‘Play 
and don’t pay, it’s the end of your day.’ That’s the old 
tag. It sounds silly enough but a d’Arenzano will wake his 
banker up at five in the morning to provide cash rather than 
leave the table with the money unpaid. No doubt that’s what 
has saved us from ruin.” 

Carfax understood better than ever the cordiality of 
Prince d’Arenzano’s reception by Cardozza society! 

Beyond this visit and an extended riding tour through the 
little Orense Principality, Carfax seems to have been sta¬ 
tionary at Arenzano. 

The two younger boys at this time were instructed by one - 
of the Benedictine fathers, though Carfax taught them Eng¬ 
lish and exercised control over their free hours. Sylvestro 
was young in age but large in size, a charming, irresponsible 
creature, beloved by all; always in trouble and always sliding 
out of it with ingratiating penitence, that, it must be feared, 
was only skin deep! Damien with his quick temper seems 
to have been the champion of the oppressed of lost causes 
and all that was old, ugly or unloved, betraying no emotion 
on his own account unless his own tenets of honor or re¬ 
sponsibilities were concerned. Injustice goaded him to mad¬ 
ness but he made a nice distinction between the injustice 


PROPHETIC DAYS 


29 


arising from a divergent standard of conduct and the crude 
injustice of hasty judgment. 


II 

During his third year Carfax records an episode which 
proves that Arenzano had not exhausted its powers of spring¬ 
ing new surprises on him out of its storehouse of legendary 
law and custom. 

He writes as follows: 

“Mediaevalism gone mad! When shall I get to an end of 
it all? Ed heard vaguely of something called ‘The Com¬ 
mand’, some form of words which when used by the reign¬ 
ing prince, become more than an order, disobedience to them 
counting as high treason. 

“The Prince was in an unusually bad humor today, I 
suspect that a visit to Cardozza is in contemplation. We 
avoided him as far as possible, but coming through a lobby 
on our way out this afternoon we met him. Paul was 
ahead of Raphael and myself and stood aside to allow his 
father to pass. The Prince turned sharply on him and acci¬ 
dentally knocked over a large vase of great value which broke 
in pieces. The usually courteous Prince flared up. 

“ ‘Pick it up/ he said in tones so aggressive that I was 
not surprised to see Paul jerk back his head with a black look 
in his eyes that I know well. 

“ Til call Peter/ he answered shortly. 

“The Prince interposed swiftly between him and the door. 
He had clearly lost all control over himself and it looked as 
if Paul was following suit. 

“Neither Raphael nor I dared intervene for fear of pre¬ 
cipitating matters. 

“ ‘Pick it up yourself/ insisted the Prince. 

“ ‘It’s not my work or my fault sir/ retorted Paul. 


30 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“The Prince went first white then scarlet and said: 

“ Tick up the pieces—It is a Command!’ 

“He gave a certain gesture with his left hand. 

“Raphael caught my arm. Paul stood looking grimly at 
his father. They were sufficiently near each other in height 
to make one forget it was a boy and a man. Then Paul said 
quietly. 

“ Tt is work for a servant. I will call one/ 

“He turned and went out of another door, without hasten¬ 
ing his steps. 

“Raphael dragged me back through the door by which we 
had entered, evidently hoping to intercept Paul, but when 
we reached the court there was no sign of him. 

“I thought he had done wisely to disappear, for although 
he had no right to disobey his father I could not but 
sympathize, for it seemed to me he had been commanded in 
a very uncalled for manner. 

“Raphael looked round with apprehensive eyes. I was 
amazed to see him quite agitated. 

“ ‘He must have gone to Cellino’s,’ he muttered, ‘Oh, how 
could he be such a fool!’ 

“I arrested his hurrying steps. 

“ ‘Is this a game, Raphael ?’ I demanded. 

“He angrily shook off my hand. 

“ ‘A game! Good Heavens, don’t you understand? He’s 
disobeyed the Command!’ 

“We went on to the gate house where Cellino, who is at 
once the Recorder and Teacher of the Law, lives, and I 
pressed the boy for further explanation as we went, though 
he is not a person one would go to for explanation as a rule. 

“ ‘When the Prince gives the Command, its got to be 
obeyed,’ he said shortly, ‘or it counts as treason. It’s sup¬ 
posed to be given only in urgent necessity. It was unjusti¬ 
fiable—given like that. Paul must lodge an appeal.’ 


PROPHETIC DAYS 


31 


“Raphael flung these scraps of information at me over his 
shoulder. 

“Cellino had seen nothing of Paul and his face was as 
troubled as Raphael’s when the latter jerked out his story. 

“ ‘Find him if you can,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to 
advise. An appeal’s a serious matter.’ 

“ ‘It’s a serious affair for Paul if he doesn’t,’ retorted 
Raphael and flung himself away down the stairs. 

“Cellino explained matters more fully to me. 

“Paul would not only have to apologize formally and by 
prescribed ceremony in Court but would have to endure an 
hour’s pillory. I had seen this pillory of course. An odd 
iron erection with a heavy figure of the Wolf of Arenzano 
on the top. I could not imagine Paul submitting to such an 
indignity. 

“ ‘It was obviously unfair to Command him on such a 
trivial matter,’ I remarked. 

“Cellino’s face grew more gloomy still. 

“ ‘He must appeal before sundown, and a Court is then 
summoned to decide whether it is an unrighteous Command 
or not. If it is, then it is His Highness who apologizes— 
and it tells against him when his sword is carried for the 
last time, in there’—he nodded to the Great Gallery where 
the records and armor of the past Princes are garnered. 

“Cellino left me and I returned here to my room. 

“The next day. 

“Paul did not turn up last night till quite late. He was 
very silent and morose and would make no answer to 
Raphael’s passionate arguments. He said he was not going 
to appeal. Raphael at last, flung off in a temper. 

“Paul lingered a minute when he said good night. 

“ ‘I’ve seen Cellino,’ he said slowly. ‘He understands. 
You see it would be entered in the records against His High¬ 
ness. His sword would not be bare.’ 


32 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“If I fail to grasp the meaning of all these absurd senti¬ 
ments and proceedings I can at least see that Paul is doing 
something which Cellino regards as heroic and Raphael as 
madly quixotic. I wonder what his mother thinks ? 

“The next day. The Princess waylaid me as we returned 
from supper last night. She was plainly agitated and I even 
fancied there were traces of tears on her face. She said 
with a little catch in her voice: 

“ ‘Paul is being very good but it’s dreadfully unfair. 
What can I do however ?* 

“It would have been impertinence on my part to offer con¬ 
solation. I merely remarked I thought Paul capable of 
deciding on his actions. 

“She still hesitated and finally said: 

“ ‘Raphael will not be of much use to Paul—or anyone else 
tomorrow, Mr. Carfax. If he is too upset to keep proper 
hours you will understand?’ 

“I assured her I should not be surprised if he played truant 
the following day. 

“It was an amazingly disconcerting ceremony. I think it 
time such formalities were banished from the Statute Book, 
though it’s rank treason to hint as much. The Justice Hall 
was empty of all save officials, though it’s the essence of the 
Law that all may attend. The Prince himself was far more 
distressed than Paul. Probably it’s not the first time his 
quick temper has got him into trouble. The culprit was 
formally charged with disobeying The Command and form¬ 
ally acknowledged his fault, accepting the penalty, which was 
one hour in the pillory. That instrument is so framed that 
once in its clutches a man is kept kneeling with head and 
shoulders bent beneath the weight of the iron wolf that 
crowns it. It is the length of time rather than the position 
that insures the hardship, but of course there is the public 
indignity. In this matter poor Paul was spared much, for 


PROPHETIC DAYS 


33 


the usually busy yard was deserted and only those bound to 
be present were there. Nevertheless the sun beat down piti¬ 
lessly on the bare stones and for the one scalding hour Paul 
had to kneel there. I was too sick and exasperated to endure 
the scene. The Prince disappeared directly the formalities 
in the hall were over, and I do not know what happened to 
Paul when he was released, but he came in with Raphael 
about nine o’clock, very silent, and with an obvious headache 
but making a great effort to appear as usual. 

“Friday. Today about ten o’clock Paul’s lessons were in¬ 
terrupted. He was to ride to Melino with his father. They 
started off in the best of spirits, both quite cheerful, and 
Paul triumphant that legitimate business should over-ride the 
meaner claims of the schoolroom! Raphael, on the contrary, 
will not yet speak to his father.” 

III 

Paul’s violent temper, to which Carfax alludes in the fore¬ 
going extract, was indeed a source of vast concern and dif¬ 
ficulty to Carfax, and many pages of his diary are devoted 
to his strenuous efforts to help his pupil to self-control and 
shame of what had hitherto been regarded as an unfortu¬ 
nate ‘heritage’ against which it was useless to struggle. 
Space will not permit of us giving details of the long fight 
they both put up, but Carfax may be credited with a fair 
measure of success since there is no record of any serious 
trouble until in the zenith of his days black wrath swept 
over the Prince and the full hurricane of his long sup¬ 
pressed passion broke and left an indelible wound and scar 
across his life. 

IV 

After Carfax had been at Arenzano three years, it was 


34 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


decided that Paul should go to the University at Cardozza, 
and Raphael join him there the following year. Whether 
Carfax was then to leave or continue in charge of the 
younger boys is not clear. Events proved too momentous 
for any pre-arranged plan. Once Paul was launched Carfax 
gave him his whole attention and his liking and mistrust of 
the boy grew side by side. 

Count Raphael at this age seems to have had a peculiar 
fascination. There was something impish and unexpected 
about him. He was capable of devotion and a vast un¬ 
selfishness when his affections were engaged. He lacked, 
however, any power of openly expressing his real feelings 
and had a perverse habit of misleading those about him when 
his feelings were in any degree moved, by a display of 
callous indifference. With a most complete understanding 
of the course he ought to take he frequently betrayed a 
deliberate pleasure in taking the wrong one. But the trait 
which seems to have given Carfax the most uneasiness was 
that streak of cruelty which was ingrained in him and the 
inhuman patience with which he would wait his opportunity 
to get ‘level’ with a fancied wrong. 

Probably Carfax discussed these matters with the Prin¬ 
cess but she could do little. Raphael was undoubtedly her 
favorite son. Her pride in her eldest born had its com¬ 
plement in her sense of Raphael’s need of her affection and 
trust. Indeed he seems to have invariably shown his best 
side to his mother, and she, if heaven and time had per¬ 
mitted, might have been some check on his disastrous career. 

There is practically no record of Prince Paul’s early days 
at the University beyond that supplied by the University 
books. He did well from the first, his shrewd judgment 
and power of self-restraint held in leash his fast developing 
powers of leading, and to have weighed and studied and 
watched the new world round him. 


PROPHETIC DAYS 


35 


The following year Raphael joined him, not without grave 
misgivings on the part of Carfax, we find. 

These misgivings were only too well founded, for after 
one brilliant year in which he showed promise of excep¬ 
tional ability he came hopelessly to grief. 

There is no occasion to go into the matter which closed 
his University career. It was sufficiently serious to lead to 
his temporary banishment from his home as well as Car- 
dozza and the problem of what to do with him seems to 
have been acute. In the end Carfax came to the rescue and 
he and the young count set out on a European tour as a 
means of completing the young man’s education and keeping 
him under the eye of a true and devoted companion. 


CHAPTER IV 

TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 

I 

S OMEWHERE in those unseen regions of causation 
which shut in humanity with mountainous walls, the 
clouds of tragedy were gathering themselves together, though 
their very gathering was preluded by an unexpected event. 

Princess d’Arenzano, after many years, was again about 
to become a mother. 

It was not surprising that under these circumstances she 
made less effort than usual to retain Prince Victor at her 
side when an uncontrollable thirst for excitement demanded 
recognition. He went up to Cardozza and descended with 
much gaiety and enthusiasm on Paul, whom he insited on 
carrying off from his studies to bear him company for a few 
days in the Orense Palace. 

“You’ve got to know people,” he said, “and though, I want 
a fling, I do not want to go too far,—you know how it is 
with your mother—if you are at hand I’ll know when to 
stop, but you are not to play yourself,—not my sort of play.” 

Prince Victor always frankly recognized his own weak¬ 
ness and expected others to do the same. Paul appreciated 

36 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


37 


the situation, and for some few evenings they both went 
out together continually, the Prince pleased enough to in¬ 
troduce his son to Society. 

Then came the evening when the clouds gathered and 
broke, and altered all the fortunes of the House of Aren- 
zano. 

Paul was playing a comparatively mild game at one table, 
but at another, near by, play ran high. On a sudden, a 
sharp exclamation, a chair pushed back, and an accusation 
hurled cross the table. 

Then a moment’s silence, the whole room holding its 
breath. Paul got up suddenly, and crossed the room, leav¬ 
ing a little pile of money beside his scattered cards. 

Voices rose rapidly again. Quickly and fiercely the dis¬ 
pute was tossed from side to side. Prince Victor and an¬ 
other man faced each other. The former angry and indig¬ 
nant, the latter quiet, furious and desperate, while between 
them sat a bewildered youth vaguely conscious that someone 
had been accused of cheating him, that the air was full of 
danger, and that these men he called friends were splitting 
up into two parties: one round the desperate Gibelli, against 
whom he had been matching his poor wits, and the other 
around the indignant Prince, who, without warning, had 
burst out in his defence, declaring that Gibelli was cheating. 

Paul pushed his way to his father’s side. 

“Name your man and go,” he heard one saying. 

“He will choose pistols,” muttered another. 

Paul caught his father’s arm. 

“Sir,” he whispered swiftly, “you can’t fight now, you 
must put it off. Remember there’s my mother.” 

Prince d’Arenzano, till then hot with excitment, certain 
of the righteousness of his cause, turned as white as Paul 
himself. 

But those who had not heard the whisper—and some who 


38 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


had—tried to push Paul aside. They could not understand 
what had come over the Prince. 

It was Orsena, who intervened. 

“Take him away, my Prince,” he said quickly to Paul, ‘Til 
settle all this and come to you.” 

Somehow or other Paul got his father from the place and 
out into the streets. The cold night air was grateful to them 
both. It was about 2 a. m. and the stars twinkled down 
kindly on the city, which was, at last, extinguishing its puny 
lights. 


II 

“He will not consider any delay,” said Orsena gravely, 
“though it has cost him half his supporters. You need not 
fear that your honor is touched by the request though. The 
support of all those who count is with you.” 

“Then to-morrow holds good; six o’clock ?” 

The Prince betrayed nothing of his feelings, but his son, 
standing behind him, clenched his hands. 

The indefatigable Orsena had been to and fro between 
the contending parties the whole day. 

The circumstances regarding Princess d’Arenzano were 
well known, and at Paul’s passionate urging, an attempt was 
made to postpone the meeting till after the event, but 
Gibelli was inflexible. A meeting next morning at six 
o’clock, pistols for weapons, two shots to be exchanged, was 
his demand, and he would not abate one iota of it. 

Orsena insisted on the Prince getting a few hours’ sleep, 
and also made Paul lie down, but though the father slept 
like a child, the son neither slept nor closed his eyes. It 
was his first direct encounter with this desperate remedy 
for cooling the passions of men, and a cold horror filled him. 
It appealed neither to his reason nor his heart. If his 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


39 


father were right, and he insisted he was, in saying that 
Gibelli was cheating the young Francavanchi, then Gibelli 
was no fit man for his father to meet. The Prince could 
bring no proof to his word or conviction, and Gibelli coolly 
and emphatically denied it; naturally he would do so, Paul 
thought. If his father killed him they would be no nearer 
the truth, if he—but Paul refused to face the alternative. 

Paul was no child; in many ways he was old for his 
years, and he was well aware that his mother’s life might 
well be in jeopardy with his father’s. He had even sug¬ 
gested to Orsena the possibility of taking his father’s place, 
but Orsena, after serious consideration, would not permit 
this. 

“We have done all we can,” he said gravely, “the fellow is 
a brute-beast or he would postpone the meeting.” 

After this Paul never left his father’s side. He helped 
him dress and saw that he had food. The Prince was quiet 
and composed, but very unlike his ordinary gay self. 

“I think, somehow, it will go badly with me, Paul,” he 
said a little wistfully, “I was a fool, but I couldn’t see that 
boy cheated. You will make a better Seigneur than I have 
if it comes to that. I hope it will be a girl for her sake. 
Girls are always scarce in our family.” 

Terrible minutes—the precursor of many such agonizing 
spaces of time,—for the younger man with his emotional 
nature yet fresh to such experience. It required all his 
young strength to sustain him, and the Prince himself seemed 
to have looked to him for support. 

The meeting was in the great Park behind the Palace. 
Orsena, Francavanchi himself, the Duke de Florence and 
Count Baltazza were present, besides Paul, whom no urging 
could keep away. Gibelli was supported by Prince Felara 
and Count Bienvento, a notorious duellist, neither of them 
names to inspire confidence. 


40 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


It was a quick affair. Prince d’Arenzano fell mortally 
wounded at the first shot, his own just grazing Gibelli’s hand. 
Paul rushed forward as his father fell, but it was Orsena 
who caught him in his arms. 

The Prince opened his eyes once, and smiled at his son, 
turned his head with a little sigh towards him, and died. 

Paul got up and looked around him silently. The little 
circle of agitated men gathered closer, shutting out the small 
group of three across the open space. No one spoke for a 
moment. Orsena was weeping. 

A fitful gleam of sunlight filtered through the trees, and 
warmed the greyness of the dawn. 

The other group, seeing the suddenly doffed hats, removed 
their own, but when Gibelli would have stepped forward, 
the others restrained him. 

“Keep away, the son is there,” muttered one, and Gibelli 
paused, and then turned and went. It was his second who 
advanced to make the proper speeches, and he also failed and 
left them unsaid before the tall, silent young man still stand¬ 
ing there, bareheaded, intent—Was he registering a vow of 
vengeance Baltazza wondered ? 

But Paul, on the contrary, was swearing on his father’s 
dead form, that never should any circumstance force him 
into this extremity, this barbarous cruelty of a duel, a vow 
he broke once, and once only, to his everlasting sorrow. 

Ill 

Orsena has left it on record that, from the first moment, 
this boy of nineteen dominated the situation, gave his quiet 
orders, and then leaving him—Orsena—in charge, set off in 
the afternoon, on the best horse his father had brought with 
him, to ride back to Arenzano with the terrible news. 

He himself told his mother—with what care and tender- 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


41 


ness was possible—but the shock was too great for her. 
Twenty-four hours after, a fifth son to the House of Aren- 
zano was born before his time, and the Princess was passing 
into the land of shadows. 

Paul hardly left her. She signed for them to put the tiny 
baby into its big brother’s arms. It had just been baptized 
Maximilian Everard and had been wailing feebly but was 
quiet now, lying in that firm, close hold. 

“You will look after him Paul, darling,” whispered the 
Princess, “as your own son?” 

“As my son will I care for him,” said Paul in his grave 
voice. 

Her mind wandered a little—into the future maybe— 

“The greatest Seigneur of them all—'wider worlds’—” 
and then suddenly and clearly: 

“Tell Raphael we loved him all the same—be good to him, 
Paul, he needs love.” 

And then no more. 

In forty-eight hours Paul Landuoc d'Arenzano had lost 
both mother and father and from mere responsibility for 
his own soul, had stepped through black portals of grief, to 
the absolute authority and rule over some twenty thousand 
souls, including those of his four brothers. 

IV 

One of the first things Prince Paul had done when he 
reached Arenzano had been to dispatch a courier to Rome 
where, at that particular moment, Carfax and Raphael were 
staying. 

They set off homeward within an hour, and travelled with 
all possible speed. They arrived too late to see her—a mis¬ 
fortune which had the worst effect on Count Raphael. 

Carfax left on record a simple account of the home- 


42 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


coming, which reads rather like that of one forcing himself 
to record impersonally an event which had laid cold fingers 
on his heart. 

“We had ridden hard and were cruelly weary, but when 
the Castle came in sight with its lowered flag and the stormy 
evening light behind it, the foreboding in my heart spoke so 
loudly that I would gladly have begun the journey again to 
hold hope for my companion for an hour longer, for though 
none spoke to us as they took our horses and Raphael ques¬ 
tioned none, the double shadow of death hung heavy over us. 

“We were asked to wait in the little room which had 
always been Prince d’Arenzano’s. 

“His Highness should be informed at once. 

“It startled me, that ‘His Highness,’ and it required an 
effort of my numbed brain to connect it with Paul. 

“Raphael had spoken no word for hours. I expected him 
to rush off searching for his brother himself, but he stood 
motionless there in the dim room before the wood fire, with 
an expressionless face. 

“Then the door opened and Paul came in, a new Paul, 
older, taller, black clad, and, it seemed, a face on which sor¬ 
row had set an indefaceable seal. 

“He held out his hand to me very quietly but said nothing, 
and looked at Raphael, who half turned aside. Then he 
put his arm round his brother’s shoulders and took him 
away. I knew my two ‘boys’ had gone from me forever.” 

The double funeral was a vast ceremonious affair. 

Through the trying time Raphael sought refuge in the 
forest, dragging himself back for food, or shelter at night, 
speaking to no one if avoidable, savage, bitter, and nursing 
a cold vindictive hate of the Power that had snatched his 
mother from him. 

Paul secretly feared his bitterness would declare itself 
against the puny, frail babe* who still lived in spite of the 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


43 


forebodings. It was two days before Raphael would see it. 
Then Paul, paying one of his frequent visits to his youngest 
charge, saw Raphael standing by the old nurse of their in¬ 
fancy, looking down at the baby. His face was less hard, 
and the old nurse had laid her hand on his arm unrebuked. 
Paul withdrew quietly. 

Terrible days those for nineteen years to face and mar¬ 
shal into order, yet he did it—Cellino by his side—shirking 
no duty, forgetting no call, rising as he ever did to the full 
force of his Power in the face of difficulties. Cellino’s 
official records of the time contain nothing but cold facts, 
but in his voluminous diaries are pages of details, and ex¬ 
pressions of admiration and devotion to the young Prince, 
“who shirks or forgets nothing, and goes from one duty to 
another quietly and without complaint.” “Yet there were 
weaker hours too,”—a tiny record, half erased—or written 
as by one half ashamed to put it down—of a night watch in 
the chapel and bitter weeping, from which Heaven, it may 
be, sent consolation and new strength. 

It was all over at last. 

The guests had gone, and the great Castle prepared itself 
for a new rule. For one year the new Prince must perform 
his duties in the eyes of a critical State, must administer the 
law, and dispense justice as one on probation, and then would 
come the coronation, the formal acceptance of him by a peo¬ 
ple who, in long past years, had won such a right from the 
feudal lords, and still hung tenaciously to the form. 

Carfax stayed on a while in charge of the younger boys, 
but, after a few months, it became clear that he could ill 
adjust himself to the changed conditions. 

Paul had evidently no intention of giving him the undis¬ 
puted sway over his brothers that Carfax had had over his 
original pupils and there is much to be said on the young 
man’s side. He was faced with a difficult task and he saw, 


44 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


perhaps more clearly than Carfax, the immense importance 
of establishing his own authority over that turbulent young 
life. So, though there was no outward friction, Carfax 
decided it was wiser to retire before his deep friendship with 
them should suffer even the shadow of eclipse. They parted 
with mutual regret and undimmed affection. 

Carfax could not face the idea of less absorbing pupils. 
He had become possessed of a small independence on the 
death of his god-father, Sir Antony Rushford. This en¬ 
abled him to gratify his thirst for travel and to turn his 
attention to the literary career he had long desired. 

He returned to Arenzano for the coronation of Prince 
Paul and left a detailed and interesting account of the affair. 

V 

THE CORONATION OF PRINCE d’ARENZANO AS RELATED BY' 
HENRY CARFAX 

****“i was met at Forresti by Damien and was a 
little surprised and touched at his warm greeting. 

“Raphael received me at the Castle and apologized for not 
being at the Inn. 

“ ‘Cellino and I can’t call our souls our own,’ he said laugh¬ 
ing. Tt’s the deuce of a business getting crowned!’ 

“There was no sign of Paul, nor did I see Sylvestro till 
he rushed in late as usual for a meal and overwhelmed me 
with welcome. I asked if Paul were not visible till the great 
day and Raphael said, after a shade of hesitation: 

“ 'Well, he’s not visible as present.’ 

“ ‘He’s at confession,’ blurted out Sylvestro with his usual 
appalling frankness, ‘and he has to keep fast and vigil all 
night.’ 

“Raphael peremptorily shut him up. 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


45 


“Later in the evening Raphael asked me if I’d come and 
see Paul, who might not leave the chapel but wanted a 
glimpse of me. 

“As we went, Raphael explained that a remote ancestor 
had been murdered the night before his ‘Crowning’ and in¬ 
volved his successors in endless trouble. Since then the night 
before the ceremony is spent in sanctuary and vigil. 

“Paul came to us at once down the dim aisle. 

“He said Raphael would have to look after me but that he 
hoped I’d remember everybody and everything was at my 
service. 

“I could not see him very clearly in the faint light. His 
voice was rather suppressed but as beautiful as ever and I 
could feel he was at high tension. 

“ ‘You are not to talk, you are to feed,’ commanded 
Raphael. 

“He had brought his brother a tray with some odd flat 
biscuits and a silver cup of wine. ‘That’s all he’s allowed,’ 
he grumbled. ‘I call it asking for a catastrophy to¬ 
morrow !’ 

“We did not stay long, and as we were going, Paul said 
to me, ‘It’s not the fault of tradition if we do not take our 
part seriously.’ Then he went back to the steps before the 
High Altar, and I saw him kneel again in the shadow. 

“Each time I woke in the night I found myself thinking 
of him. I was told to be in the Hall at five-thirty next morn¬ 
ing. There was a fair gathering assembled there when I 
entered. Sylvestro and Damien were in a dress of ceremony 
I had never seen before, odd, and bizarre to English eyes, 
but decidedly becoming. They were both in a state of sup¬ 
pressed excitement. Count Orsena was there, and others I 
knew. There was a subdued air of expectancy, but the cold 
morning light seemed to lay a spell upon us. We spoke low 
with one eye on the stairs. 


46 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Then he came. 

“I can see the two of them now, coming down in the clear 
morning light. Paul—my Paul no longer—with his grave 
young face, and that sense of dignity which is a part of him 
now, in the public mind, and was then new. He wore a 
purple dress, made after the fashion of his hunting suit, but 
with a loose jacket slung over his shoulders, and he carried 
a fur cap in his hand. Raphael came behind him and his 
whole attention was focused on his brother. Paul only 
bowed to us very gravely and we all went into the Chapel 
It was a blaze of light just now. It was High Mass and the 
Cardinal, whom I had not seen over night, officiated. Paul 
sat alone in a special seat. 

“Then back to the Hall for a most needed meal, Paul 
being, at last, permitted to eat! Raphael hardly moved from 
his side. I learned after, that, though they had both learned 
all the ceremonials, Raphael had undertaken to prompt Paul, 
and Cellino to manage all the rest. 

“The big courtyard was transformed. There were four 
tiers of seats round it; the windows were reserved for 
ladies and children. The boys and I watched the throng 
assemble: the great vassals and their families, representa¬ 
tives from every town and village, from every trade or pro¬ 
fession; near the centre, were the foresters in their pictur¬ 
esque dress. Round the dais at the east end of the court 
were the personal friends and servants and on the dais with 
Paul would be the Cardinal, the King’s Representative, his 
brothers, Cellino, Father Pierre, and,—to my surprise,— 
myself. 

“Presently we had to take our place. From the dais we 
could not see the ‘Gate’ ceremony, but I was told of it. Paul 
and his supporter rode up to the locked doors, and knocked. 
Cellino demanded names and rights, which Raphael gave. 
The keys were then handed to Paul to touch and then he gave 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


47 


them to Raphael, who unlocked the gate. They then rode 
up to the dais and dismounted, and Paul took his place. 

“The herald made a Proclamation, and then Paul made his 
first official speech: 

“ T, Paul Landuoc, eldest son of Victor d’Arenzano, now 
dead, do here claim by right of my birth, and heritage, the 
kingdom of my fathers, and the Dukedom of Melino and, 
that peace may not afterwards be troubled, I here challenge 
such as would dispute my just claim and rights to speak 
openly their mind and do battle with my champion, or hold 
peace forever!’ 

“Then he turned to Raphael, T appoint my brother, 
Raphael d’Arenzano, champion and supporter of my claim.’ 

“Then for five long, silent minutes we sat still and mo¬ 
tionless. 

“Paul stood looking down. It was extraordinarily im¬ 
pressive, that silent waiting for a catastrophe that never 
came. Then Paul spoke again: 

“ 'Since none challenge my rights, I ask you, my people, 
present here whether you will accept me as your ruler and 
give me your loyal and true service ? I, for my part, promis¬ 
ing to serve you faithfully, gently and mercifully, to cherish 
and guard you according to the laws and customs of my 
fathers. And I ask the Holy Church/ (he turned to the 
Cardinal) 'if I be acceptable to Her in the office of Gov¬ 
ernor? Will She, on her part, bestow on me approval and 
blessing, I undertaking to remain her faithful son, obedient 
to her law, and maintaining the same in my kingdom, and of 
my sovereign Lord, The King,’ (he turned to the King’s 
Representative), 'I ask if he accept the choice of my people 
and will uphold my cause against my enemies, I, for my part, 
promising to serve him as my overlord with faithful ser¬ 
vice in all honorable and lawful purposes.’ 


48 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Then he stopped and faced the people again, and held 
out his right hand. 

“ T, Paul Landuoc, await your decision.’ 

“I never heard anything equal to the sound that went up 
like thunder. Shut in by the great walls of the Castle, the 
voices vibrated and shook the place, rose and fell. A 
thousand upstretched hands and faces fronted Paul. I saw 
his face quiver for a moment, and he drew breath deeply. 
Raphael never once took his eyes from him. Then quiet 
fell, and he said simply: 

“ ‘Thank you, my people,’ and it seemed to come straight 
from his heart. 

“Then Cellino brought out the Book of the House, with 
the oath written in it, and held it open, and Paul put one 
hand on it, and raised the other and took the oath. Every 
word of it could be heard at the other end of the court. I 
can hear the echo now, of the deep passionate tones that 
stirred one so strangely. . . . ‘this will I keep until my dying 
day, on peril to my immortal soul, in the name of the Blessed 
Trinity.’ 

“There was no cheering here, but all heads were bare. 
Then he knelt to the Cardinal and tqok an oath of allegiance 
to the Church, then to the King’s Representative, and took 
oath there, and so having satisfied all men of his good intent, 
he was conducted to the Chapel, where the Belt of the 
Seigneurship, the Cross of St. Paul, the Mantle of Jurisdic¬ 
tion, and the Sword of Justice were given him in solemn ser¬ 
vice. Raphael clasped on his belt and led him back to the 
waiting people. 

“Then Count Orsena (not the Church be it noted) handed 
him the dull gold circlet, which is the crown of Orense, and 
he took it and held it up in their sight, and set it on his own 
head. The cry that went up was shattering if one were not 
sharing in it. 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


49 


“Then silence settled down again, and I saw in the door¬ 
way behind me the old nurse with the baby Max in her arms. 

“Then came the homage giving. Sylvestro and Damien 
stood together, and Raphael first knelt and put his hands in 
Paul’s and swore to give faithful, true, and obedient service 
to his liege Lord and Seigneur, to hold his honor as his own, 
and to lay his life at his command. The others followed. 
Sylvestro’s voice was unsteady, Damien’s steady but not very 
audible. Raphael reappeared carrying Max, which Paul ap¬ 
parently had not expected, nor had the crowd. Raphael put 
the baby’s hands in Paul’s and repeated the oath for him. 
Max evidently thought it a game for when Paul bent down 
and kissed him quite naturally, the baby clutched the gleam¬ 
ing cross, which he had to unclasp from its tiny fingers. I 
don’t think I am a sentimental man, but I felt quite affected. 

“Cellino and the officials then took oath, then the chief 
of the vassals. The ceremony here was finely gradated. 
Paul advanced three steps to meet Orsena, and was evi¬ 
dently moved when the grey haired old man, who had been 
his father’s friend, knelt to the boy he had nursed as a baby. 
One vassal was a lady, and she enjoyed her few minutes 
of publicity more than Paul did, I think, though he showed 
no embarrassment. 

“Then the head forester came in the name of all. He 
carried a bunch of leaves, one from every variety of tree in 
the forest, and his oath ended with these words : 

“ ‘And of the forest, of the trees of the forest, of the 
life of the forest my Sovereign Lord may take tithe and toll, 
none gainsaying him.’ 

“Paul touched the leaves, and Raphael laid them beside 
him. This went on interminably. Every trade and pro¬ 
fession took separate oaths, often differently worded, and 
each brought tokens of their work—the farmers corn, the 
weaver cloth, the blacksmith iron, and so on. 


50 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“It was a long ceremony but neither Paul nor Raphael 
shirked an item of it. It ended at last. k We went back to 
the Hall and a meal was served. Raphael took Paul’s heavy 
mantle, and waited on him. After that he and Cellino, 
Orsena, and Raphael were busy over documents. There 
seemed endless papers to sign. 

“Father Pierre came to talk to me. 

“ ‘He is standing it very well,’ he said, ‘it is all right for 
a head like his, but what of an unbalanced one? We owe 
you a lot, Mr. Carfax.’ 

“Well, I had done my best for a singularly gifted boy. I 
am proud of him. He found time to come to me before 
taking up his part again. 

“ ‘Don’t think I am going to be content with seeing you 
like this; I have a hundred things to say to you, but they must 
wait until to-morrow. Raphael is a genius, isn’t he?’ 

“The ‘genius’ came and dragged him off. 

“The next ceremony was the reading and re-registering 
of the jurisdiction during Paul’s probationary year. Every 
sentence was read over. If any dissatisfaction was felt, it 
could now be declared and, as far as possible, remedied. I 
was surprised to learn how excellent his judgment was. 

“The Regent was appointed. It was expected that old 
Count Orsena would have the post, but Paul made Raphael 
his Regent, and I saw the latter flush with pleasure and, for 
the first time, look moved. 

“The last ceremony was the changing of the Swords of 
Justice. Every Prince has his own sword, which lies before 
him in the Court and is carried before him on state occa¬ 
sions, and finally, at the Coronation of his successor, is 
placed in the Armory beneath the shield that bears the record 
of his deeds, and if any Prince has been by public voice con¬ 
victed of injustice, the sword is wholly or partly sheathed or 


TRAGEDY AND CEREMONY 


51 


broken. It is not easy to leave an unsheathed sword—and 
one is broken. 

“The sword of Victor d’Arenzano was brought veiled in 
crepe, and Paul took it saying: 

“ 'As I deal with the sword of my Father, may my sons 
deal with mine!’ 

“He held it up and handed it to Cellino, who turned to the 
people. Not a sound was heard and all heads bowed, and 
Cellino bore the Sword to the Armory. I remembered how 
a boy of seventeen had suffered an injustice in order that 
the sword might go naked to its resting place! 

“Then he spoke to them all, not formally but in plain 
speech, few words but to the point and unforgetable. 

“The Foresters burst into their wonderful throbbing chant, 
the great flag on the Keep dropped and rose three times,— 
it was over! 

“It was on the morrow that my old pupil let me have a 
fleeting glimpse of all that was hidden in that wonderful head 
of his. He is going to Cardozza. The Orense Palace is to 
be formally opened again. He loves Arenzano, but it is just 
‘home’ to him. It could not satisfy the energy, ambition, 
and desire that burn in him. Romanzia is his country and 
it needs helpers, is crying for them. He has been on The 
Mount of Vision and unwittingly he revealed it to me. 

“ 'We have been administrators here for generations/ he 
said. ‘What can be done, has been done, but I am a Roman- 
zian as well as an Orensian, and I know, what so few of 
them know, the A. B. C. of government. If they will let 
me I can help and do something some day; of course I’m 
young yet/ 

“He had mapped his life out, Arenzano, the Government 
of Orense, his brother’s welfare, his own ambitions. 

“ ‘Max will do better in Cardozza for the winter/ he said. 


52 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


'He’s not so strong as I could wish. When he’s more robust 
he can winter here.’ 

“I said he looked healthy enough. 

“ ‘He’s that,’ Paul assured me, ‘only he’s not got so much 
vitality as he should have. He’s forward though for his 
age.’ 

“The future leader of men explained gravely that Max 
already tried to build houses and was not afraid of a horse. 

“ ‘Good heavens, Paul!’ I exclaimed, ‘you don’t put that 
baby on a horse yet surely!’ 

“ ‘Only in my arms,’ he explained apologetically. ‘I don’t 
let Raphael or Sylvestro take him.’ 

“I saw that sight later on. We were going riding and 
Paul took me up to the baby’s room first, where we found 
Raphael lying on the floor building houses. I don’t know 
what Max contributed to the building, but he certainly 
knocked them down. He seemed to know Paul was in riding 
dress and shouted, so Paul carried him down and rode round 
the courtyard with him in his arms. Max squealed with 
glee. He is a pretty little boy, but rather fragile to my think¬ 
ing, though I would not admit it to his brother, who takes 
his slight delicacy to heart. 

“Most men would find enough of responsibility here, but 
Paul does not. Nothing will be neglected, certainly not baby 
Max. But he gets through in an hour what probably took 
his father a whole morning to do. He makes Raphael do 
his share too!” 


CHAPTER V 

WIDENING HORIZONS 

I 

Tj'OR one more year at Arenzano the young Prince watched 
over his young brothers and guarded with almost a 
woman’s devotion the precarious life-journey of the small 
boy, who grew slowly into better keeping with his robust 
surroundings. Nothing was too small or trivial for the 
Prince’s consideration. There are notes of consultation with 
Raphael over summer and winter clothing, Raphael’s love 
of beauty imposing itself on Paul’s utilitarianism. Accounts 
for velvet and fur pelisses, Tuscan embroideries, fine colored 
cloths and white linen. Probably the splendid peasant wo¬ 
man who was the baby’s foster mother had no easy task to 
please the arbitrary young seigneur. 

In many ways the Prince’s rule was indulgent. He was 
too near boyhood himself not to sympathize with its needs. 
There was great liberty of coming and going, abundant out 
of door life, and no stint of money. But in return for all 
this, Paul exacted the most absolute obedience to his author¬ 
ity. The Prince ruled, and the Prince woud be obeyed. 
Casual behavior to the brother might pass unrebuked, but 

53 


54 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


disrespect to the Prince was a dire crime. In all this there 
was a profound wisdom, for how otherwise could so young 
a man, one so near their own age, have hoped to keep any 
semblance of order, or any graciousness of life, in that 
stronghold of turbulent masculine youth? If his hand was 
heavy, his head was clear, and his heart warm with passion¬ 
ate affection for his troublesome family. 

So much with regard to the younger members, but 
Raphael presented a still more difficult problem. He was too 
old for the physical discipline so swiftly dealt out to the 
others, too complex and too dangerous to be left entirely 
free to follow his own crooked will. His restless soul 
fretted silently even under his brother’s easy rule. He was 
passionately devoted to Paul, but this did not prevent 
Raphael crossing Paul’s will when the fancy took him, or 
from faint sneers at his conscientious cares, (always ex¬ 
cepting his cares for Max), or from egging on the younger 
boys to resent the authority of the elder brother, for sheer 
interest in seeing what the big brother would do; or from 
going his own way, regardless of others, still fiercely an¬ 
tagonistic to the world that had met him at the outset with 
so fierce a slap to his pride. 

But Raphael’s keen intellect demanded food more satisfy¬ 
ing than sport, or playing second to his brother’s rule, and 
his insatiable curiosity turned his mind towards natural 
science. 

Towards the end of Paul’s first year of rule, Raphael 
announced that he was going to Paris to study at the Uni¬ 
versity, and that, while there, he intended to learn something 
about the “new surgery.” The study of medicine in those 
days was by no means considered a suitable employment for 
a man of social standing, but Paul managed to conceal his 
dismay and merely asked him what earthly use he thought 
to make of such an addition to his studies. 


WIDENING HORIZONS 


55 


“It might be useful when the wolf-drives being,” Raphael 
remarked airily. “Knowledge is power, remember!” he 
added, with a quizzical glance at his brother. 

“You haven’t proved that power is desirable,” laughed 
Paul. “Do you intend setting up as a surgeon in Melino?” 

“It will be something to fall back on, when you turn me 
out,” retorted Raphael unmoved at the preposterous sugges¬ 
tion. 


II 

Raphael went to Paris. There are no written records of 
his doings there, or what he specially studied, except that 
he defied convention and worked for a time under a famous 
surgeon who was setting the medical world of that day by 
the ears. The few existing letters to his brother may be 
amusing, but they certainly contain no reliable information 
of his doings. 

Late in the autumn King Ferdinand died, unregretted, and 
his son Frederick came to the throne. 

Frederick had the makings of a good man in him but his 
upbringing, and his marriage with Antoinette, daughter of 
King Albert of Slavia, undermined his character, till, both 
as a king and as a man, he became a byword for weak incom¬ 
petency. 

Yet Prince d’Arenzano undoubtedly had an affection for 
him. Perhaps, with the optimism of youth, he hoped to in¬ 
still some moral fibre into the easy-going king. Queen An- 
tionette was another matter. Her beauty was only matched 
by her reputation, or lack of it; her extravagance by her 
egotism, and her indiscretions by her shameless courage! 
She despised Romanzia and Romanzians, and used both 
merely as playthings to gratify her desires. 


56 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


The one and only child of this marriage was a girl and at 
this time was three years old. 

The coronation took place in November, and the d’Aren- 
zano family, for the first time for twenty years, took up their 
residence in the magnificent Orense Palace. 

Raphael returned for the occasion, spent six weeks in 
Cardozza and had his first introduction to Court life. Little 
doubt but Queen Antoinette made much of the handsome boy, 
who could pay a compliment or fling off a witty retort with 
the best or worst of her entourage. 

However, he returned to Paris, and Paul was doubtless 
pleased. He had enough on his hands already, with the up¬ 
bringing of his three other brothers, and the whirlpool of 
muddy politics into which he was immediately thrown. 

In three months he had founded the nucleus of a national 
Party which consisted of half a dozen Orense families, who 
followed in the wake of their Prince with blind devotion, and 
some eight or nine representatives of the oldest Romanzian 
families who had so far held aloof from the vile corruption 
and rotten government that prevailed. 

Of these the Prince was the acknowledged head. In six 
months’ time the Party had doubled its size, he was a power 
in the land, and the King offered him a place in the Ministry. 

It was an evil government that Prince d’Arenzano joined, 
weak, supine, and corrupt. The fact that he joined it cost 
him some of his following; but here he acted as he always 
acted, with regard to the end he had in view, too strong in 
his own integrity to resent wading through mud, if it 
brought him more quickly to the spring which should clean 
his country of its foulness. 

Raphael received a characteristic letter about this time. 

“Orense Palace, March 4th, 1825. 

“Dear Raphael. Events move quickly here. It is lucky 


WIDENING HORIZONS 


57 


my legs are long enough to keep pace with them. Fellachi 
has gone (Fellachi was the late Minister of the Crown). 
For the moment Duke Avata has the job. Till I’m ready 
for it, entre nous! The new Bill on Corruption and Bribery 
is being framed. Of course, it won’t pass until we get a 
Second Chamber reorganized, but that is what we mean to 
do, and this Bill is merely a declaration of war to clear the 
ground. I am desperately hard-worked and a clear-headed 
brother at my side would be of service. Haven’t you had 
enough of your disgusting surgery yet, brute that you are? 
If your private hobby were known, I doubt if Cardozza 
would receive you with the open welcome she will doubtless 
accord you in her ignorance. 

“Sylvestro distinguished himself last week by walking 
along the outside parapet of the St. Michael Bridge. He col¬ 
lected a fine crowd and a fine fuss. 

“The guards could not get at him short of pushing him 
off, so they just had to let him finish his course. It was a 
bet, if you please! The penitence I contrived to produce 
will be as short-lived as usual, I fear. Damien had the te¬ 
merity to say I was unfair to Sylvestro, because there was 
nothing wrong in walking along the outside of a bridge, it 
was only silly! 

“I hope you will see your way to return, and throw your¬ 
self into the Herculean task of saving your country! 

“I am your affectionate brother, Paul.” 

Raphael, wearying of certain episodes in his Parisian life, 
took this as a fair excuse to desert them, and for the next 
five years the brothers spent a breathless existence, politically 
and socially, crossed with many family cares and a due re¬ 
gard of their own little kingdom. 

They were both indefatigable workers and players, living 
up to the very hilt of the passing hours. The superb health, 


58 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


which was their natural heritage, was unimpaired, and, no 
doubt, the demands made by the Prince for a like display of 
energy by his subordinates, earned him the name of “The 
Driver.” 

In all these busy years, in a country where scandal and 
intrigue were the every day of life, no rumors of such seem 
to have attached themselves to the person of the young Min¬ 
ister. Probably his ambitions and cares left him no leisure 
for the temptations of idle men. He had a set purpose be¬ 
fore him, from which he never swerved, and in that galaxy 
of immorality and mean interests, he stood, untainted by 
them, shoulder high above his fellows, and such mistakes 
as he made in those early days were the generous ones of too 
great faith in others’ honor, and, perhaps, too great a readi¬ 
ness to use any tool for the service of his country. 

Ill 

Those were the days of Secret Societies of unacknowl¬ 
edged influence, and underground intrigues. Usually banned 
by the Church, and occasionally stamped out by irritated 
governments, such societies still played their part, and that 
no small one, in the confused politics of Europe at that 
period. 

The Guild of St. Augustine, which was to be Prince Paul’s 
opponent in a life and death struggle, had a strange part in 
Romanzian history and no attempt to chronicle the life of 
the great Prince can be made without giving the outline of 
its early history. 

The Guild was unique in two particulars. It was not 
under the ban of the Church, and its inner activities and un¬ 
guessed purposes were regulated by one man for his own 
aims, and uncontrolled by an outside factor. 

In its origin, it was a Guild of young aristocrats, pledged 


WIDENING HORIZONS 


59 


to redeem their generation from the gross vices of the age, 
to resist all attacks on the Church of their fathers, and vowed 
to obedience to the Head of their Order, which had received 
secular and religious recognition. It was indeed a revival of 
the ancient lay Order of Brotherhood, called back to life by 
the energies of a certain Father Justine, a Jesuit, at the end 
of the 18th century, in the hope of stemming the rising tide 
of infidelity and vice. 

This Father Justine’s mission began and ended in the at¬ 
tempted reformation of the morals of the noble houses, 
seeking there a barricade against atheism and plebeian sins 
of the populace, which were spreading like a plague, and 
Father Justine was not without a certain cunning. 

By the exercise of careful selection and by difficulties in 
nomination, membership in the Guild became a hall mark of 
patrician blood, and was jealously sought after and guarded. 
Victor d’Arenzano and his brothers were amongst the early 
members and, no doubt, the simple vows and regulations had 
something to do with that Prince’s exemplary life; but un¬ 
fortunately, one result of its teaching was to induce the 
more earnest members to preserve their integrity by with¬ 
drawing themselves from the violent social world, rather 
than by living in its midst and insisting on a higher standard 
of social morals. 

Father Justine died in 1808, and he left in his place as 
Head of the Order, a very singular man, one Emanuel 
Savola, a man of good family, solitary life, and unstinted 
and hidden ambition. 

Probably Savola saw from the first the possibilities of 
the Guild, and his astute mind set to work to turn them to 
his own ends. For Savola was possessed by an ambition 
as great as that of Napoleon himself, with this vital distinc¬ 
tion, that personal aggrandisement played no part in his 
dreams. If he were insatiably greedy for power, he wanted 


60 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


no outward recognition of his authority, and if his ambi¬ 
tions embraced the political rather than the religious life of 
the day, his aims were still reformation, though it must be 
reformation according to the democratic gospel of Emanuel 
Savola. These aims were to be achieved by the purification 
of the patrician class for the sole benefit of the people them¬ 
selves. 

But he was no fool. A subtler mind and more far-reach¬ 
ing intellect never planned a campaign against the right of 
Society to rise and fall by its own standards. 

Savola argued thus: “If the force of religion will not 
compel the governing class to govern according to the rights 
of the people, then some power must be found greater than 
religion, to drive them along the right road.” He found this 
power in—Fear! The fear that lurked behind ugly stories, 
and odd difficulties; fear indeed, that succumbed to black¬ 
mail. 

He was a democrat of the democrats, who would use all 
those who considered themselves the salt of the earth as mere 
workers to build up a Republic of Nations. He considered 
that the qualities which go to make a good governor, or good 
legislator, were an hereditary instinct that could not be ob¬ 
tained in a generation by a long oppressed class. Govern¬ 
ing had been the trade of the rich from the beginning of 
riches, therefore let them continue to exercise it for the ad¬ 
vantage of those they had hitherto oppressed. 

Because Savola kept his hidden aims to himself, divulging 
only what was necessary to his one helper, when a helper 
was indispensable, and, as he worked under the sanction of 
the Church itself, the Guild of St. Augustine flourished ex¬ 
ceedingly. 

There were not many families in those days who did not 
possess some secrets unsuitable for the world’s hearing, or 
younger lives that did not get tangled up, at some time or 


WIDENING HORIZONS 


61 


another, in awkward toils, and Luigi Rivoli, Savola’s nephew 
and sole confident, was'a genius at unearthing family skele¬ 
tons, and tracing the devious ways of youth. The steel hand 
was, however, hidden under a very silken glove. Advice, 
assistance, and even material aid, were generally forthcoming 
for perplexing situations, and the payment exacted was of 
so subtle a nature, as apparently to leave the obligation en¬ 
tirely on one side. But, little by little, the net spread, and 
here and there a startled member found himself acting under 
a compulsion none the less compelling for its unspoken pres¬ 
sure. 

Gradually an Inner Fraternity of the Guild was formed of 
carefully selected members, each of whom believed himself 
an exceptional confident, or victim, of the astute Head, and 
it speaks volumes for that astuteness, that, for years, not 
indeed till all those most required were actually in the toils, 
no one of these Inner Brotherhood seems to have suspected 
the real scope and aim of the Guild of St. Augustine. When 
they did, interest and self-preservation, and, to some extent, 
the serious nature of their vows, kept them still faithful and 
secret. 

The “ Outer” Guild was divided into three grades: each 
officered by members who showed interest in the original 
purpose of the Guild, and these were under the control of 
Rivoli, who, in time, managed all its legitimate affairs. But 
the Inner Brotherhod was drawn from all grades, and was 
directly under Savola himself, though Rivoli was, on occa¬ 
sions, the intermediary between the Head and his victims, 
for such they were, though they‘might not recognize it. 

Such is a very rough outline of the organization which 
Savola built up, and of which Prince d’Arenzano and Count 
Raphael became members at the age of seventeen and 
eighteen respectively, with all the picturesque ceremony en¬ 
tailed. 


62 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Henry Carfax must have been absent at the time of their 
initiation, for he left no account of it, but there is no doubt 
that Prince Victor looked on their membership as a safe¬ 
guard against the worst dangers that beset youth in Car- 
dozza. 

Carfax did, however, leave an interesting account of a 
Service he attended in the Church of the Order while on a 
visit to the Orense Palace in 1826, which diary also gives a 
good picture of the Prince’s household at that period. 

*‘April 14th, 1825. 

“It is good to be with my family again and to contemplate 
Paul’s large frame, brimming over with energy. Raphael 
exploits him much in his old way and led him to talk of 
politics so that I have already a fairly accurate idea of the 
present situation. 

“April 15th. 

“We all attended a service at the Church of St. Augustine 
today. It is the first time I have been there. The Church is 
small and the visitors are accommodated in a high gallery 
at the end of the church. A seat is obtained by ballot and 
is much coveted, at which I am not surprised, for the service 
is most picturesque, and the singing magnificent. Though 
professionals are employed, both Paul and Raphael are in 
the choir. 

“The Church itself was built by Knight Templars I hear, 
with a round chancel and choir in the centre of the Cross 
approached by steps. There is a big crypt beneath where 
the members robe and a wide stairway leads from it into the 
Church, coming out under the gallery. The body of the 
Church was empty when the service commenced and then up 
the staircase came the procession of members, all carrying 
lights which they handed to waiting boys who placed them 
in sconces on the walls, thus making the place brighter and 
brighter. First came the youngest members in loose blue 


WIDENING HORIZONS 


63 


gowns, then the second grade in green, the third in brown and 
the officials in purple. The choir wear red, except such as 
are also officials, as Paul is. With the choir there walked two 
men in black with their hoods pulled over their faces. These 
were penitents who had transgressed some rule and had to 
stand on the chancel steps through the service. I have heard 
it whispered that a member who has not faced this ordeal 
is considered rather a milksop. 

“The whole ritual is very imposing. 

“I suppose the Guild numbers about three or four hun¬ 
dred ; it is difficult to calculate because after the age of thirty- 
five attendance is only compulsory three times a year. So 
far as one can judge from Romanzian society the results of 
the Guild have fallen far short of its founders’ intentions! 

“In the evening we went to a reception at the Duke 
Avala’s. It was a brilliant throng and I watched my boys 
carefully. They seem to me to be mentally as well as 
physically head and shoulders above the rest and to my sur¬ 
prise very much at home with the women. Yet need I be 
surprised? If they had little of the feminine side of life in 
their young existences, what they did have was of superla¬ 
tive quality. Paul must marry some day. I noticed many 
women paying court to him but none I could picture as a 
future Princess d’Arenzano. One hopes his level head will 
not be easily ensnared. 

“Arenzano, April 19th. 

“We have come down here for the birthday celebration. 
There is a large house-party and much dancing and fes¬ 
tivities. 

“Max is here. I am pleased to find him more robust than 
I expected. I wondered at first if he were spoilt but on the 
whole I fancy he gets a Spartan upbringing if today’s little 
episode is a fair sample. 

“Wandering round this afternoon I found Raphael and 


64 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Max together. The baby—he is no more—had fallen from 
a tree, hurting his arm badly on a branch. Raphael was 
tearing a handkerchief into strips, and seeing me called out 
for assistance. I was made to hold Max while he cut open 
his sleeve, washed his arm in the stream and bound it up. 
Max was told he must not cry before an Englishman! Max 
did his best with much courage. When the bandaging was 
finished Raphael picked him up and carried him to the 
Castle. However, on the terrace there was a group of ladies 
and Max was promptly put on his feet. 

“ Tt will alarm them if they see you being carried/ 
Raphael said, ‘and no gentleman must ever do that. If you 
keep between Mr. Carfax and me they will not notice your 
bandage and you can slip indoors.’ 

“But the Countess de Meda, who is acting hostess for her 
nephew, perceived us and the bandaged arm as well. She 
was instantly full of alarm and questions. Raphael left 
Max to explain that he was really not much hurt and had 
only fallen off a very low branch, but his poor little face was 
rather white and his voice shaky. I was quite thankful when 
Raphael stooped and swiftly took him up and bore him off. 
I found Paul soon after and told him what had occurred. 
He burst out into tempestuous anger and strode off in search 
of the two, to mingle condemnations with condolences over 
Max’s bed one presumes! 

“If Prince d’Arenzano shirked matrimony, he could not 
be said to have escaped the cares and anxieties of domestic 
life!” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE DEEDS OF YOUTH-THE DREAMS OF AGE 


I 

TT'OR two years the Prince made strenuous efforts to enlist 
Count Raphael’s sympathies in the reformation of his 
country, but though the Count would at times work with 
fierce energy for the discomfiture of his brother’s enemies, 
he had none of the selfless devotion to a cause which in¬ 
spired the Prince. He was admired, courted and feared in 
his own social world. He was essentially a sportsman, that 
it to say, he rode, shot, and fenced better than his comrades. 
No woman was supposed to be able to resist him if he chose 
to court her, but he chose seldom, and cared little for a con¬ 
quest once won. He varied his days in the capital with 
solitary journeys to remote countries, and the adulations of 
society with the austerities of his mountain home and the 
good-fellowship of his brothers. Yet through all his life 
there still ran that strange streak of perversity. What you 
would expect of him, that he would not do. The sin that 
seemed inevitable, that he would not commit. 

He was remorseless if offended and a man to whom a duel 
was a pleasure and yet having stalked down his prey he would 

65 


66 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


sometimes let it go with a contempt which was worse than 
death. 

This habit of duelling was a constant source of trouble 
between himself and the Prince, who had never broken, so 
far, the oath he had taken over his dead father. Still, how¬ 
ever bitter their quarrel, a short absence, or the mere breath 
of misfortune, and they would come together again with 
renewed pleasure. Paul indeed, was the one person against 
whom Raphael never bore resentment and Paul himself 
seemed incapable of remembering his brother’s short-comings 
once the immediate result had passed. 

II 

“Her Gracious Majesty is going to be pleased to appoint 
me Master of the Horse,” announced Raphael cheerfully, but 
with a watchful eye upon his brother. 

Paul pushed back his chair. 

“Nonsense!” 

“Sober fact, but why otherwise? Do you think it too 
exacting and responsible a post for my years? I do know 
something about horses after all.” 

“It’s altogether preposterous. You—Master of the 

Horse!” There was scorn in his voice. 

“And only yesterday you were pressing me to get some 
regular employment. There’s no pleasing some people!” 
sighed Raphael. 

“She must find someone else. I won’t have it.” 

“It’s Her Majesty who is having it,” murmured his 
brother. 

Paul struggled to keep his temper, already stretched to 
breaking point by a harassing morning. 

“I’m not joking, Raphael. You must refuse.” 


THE DEEDS OF YOUTH 


67 


“Sorry—but I have accepted. You shouldn’t have twitted 
me with having no occupation.” 

“Occupation be hanged!” burst out Paul wrathfully. 
“You call that pet-dog dalliance at a bridle rein, occupation? 
You a man with brains of his own! By all the dead gods, 
it’s enough to make one want to strike some sense into that 
steel-plated head of yours!” 

Raphael for a moment swayed between anger and amuse¬ 
ment, and the latter won. Paul’s tempestuous wrath always 
amused him because of his amazing language. 

“Perhaps I’ll pick up some horse sense in the royal stables,” 
he drawled, “though from all reports they are in a bad way.” 

The Prince realized he had lost the game in loosing his 
temper. He could do nothing now with Raphael, though 
the appointment pleased him very ill, and that not only for 
the reason he had given, as Raphael very well knew. 

“If the duties prove too strenuous, I can always appoint 
a deputy,” said Raphael consolingly. “I am convinced Her 
Majesty would not wish me to ruin my constitution with 
overwork.” 

He still kept a wary eye on his brother, whose quick anger 
having evaporated, looked grave enough. 

“I can’t see that your constitution is any concern of Her 
Majesty’s,” he remarked frigidly. 

“She admires my particular style of beauty,” laughed the 
other. “I can imagine her being quite annoyed if I turned 
up on duty looking fatigued.” 

The family good looks were regarded as a mere family 
possession, as impersonal as a coat-of-arms, or their physi¬ 
cal strength, always legitimate subjects for “chaff.” 

Raphael lounged toward the door, paused and looked 
back. 


68 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Dear nurse,” he added with gentle sarcasm, “there have 
been beautiful women before Cleopatra, and plenty of men 
not quite such fools as Mark Antony.” 

With that he went, and Paul with a sigh resumed his work. 

The Queen got her Master of the Horse and malicious 
tongues added another name to the scandalous chronicles 
of the court. 


Ill 

Emanuel Savola and his nephew Luigi Rivoli were seated 
together on a chilly November evening before a blazing wood 
fire. They were a strange couple, and they discussed strange 
matters. 

Savola was a little bent figure of a man, with fierce hawk¬ 
like eyes which appeared veiled, until, on a sudden, he flashed 
them on an object and revealed a depth of fanatical person¬ 
ality that swallowed up argument as fire consumes wood. 
Rivoli was a different type. He was a doctor of science of 
some renown and not unpopular, a clever if satirical con¬ 
versationalist, and a man of some means. In appearance he 
was not ill looking, with a long narrow face and dark eyes 
rather near together, and which, like his uncle’s, he kept 
veiled. Unlike Savola, when he chose to open them, they 
sent forth no fire to scorch the observer, but rather revealed 
the cold petrifying depth of icy water. 

The two were speaking of the Chief Minister, who had 
just appointed a young and almost unknown man to the post 
of Foreign Minister. 

“Was it one of your appointments?” asked Rivoli rather 
abruptly. 

“No, but the man I would have chosen.” 


THE DEEDS OF YOUTH 


69 


The other looked his surprise. 

“Oh, clear-eyed scientist/’ mocked the old man, “do you 
see nothing more than the foolish public who do not deserve 
the Chief Minister they have got?” 

“We have not all your insight, sir,” returned Rivoli with 
lowered lids. 

“Prince d’Arenzano cannot undertake the portfolio of 
Foreign Minister in addition to his own, but he does not 
mean our foreign policy to be decided by anyone but himself, 
and there is not a man in the old set who would not take 
tradition into office with him. It is cold to-night, Luigi.” 

“Yes it is cold.” The response was mechanical. 

“This young man,” went on Savola meditatively, “is do¬ 
ing—work that I want done without my wasting an ounce 
of power to get it accomplished! Never waste power, 
Luigi, hoard it as a miser does gold, only when you use it, 
use enough—never fail— Never! This d’Arenzano will not 
fail, and some day I shall gather him in, and then, to¬ 
gether—” he sighed. 

The logs in the grate broke and crumbled away into ashes. 
Rivoli quietly piled on more. His face was immovable but 
in his heart the black seed of jealousy had fallen, destined 
for evil growth. 

“Have you any hold on him yet? I find his life ex¬ 
emplary !” There was the suspicion of a sneer in his voice. 

The old man looked at him and the sneer seemed reflected 
on the elder face, but it was not directed against the same 
object. 

“My dear Luigi, you are a clever man or you would not 
be sitting here, but there are matters in which you are still 
a fool. Fear is not the only spur to force men to our pur¬ 
pose. This Prince of ours needs no spur, but when his 


70 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


boyish enthusiasm is wearing thin, a hint may illumine a 
nearer horizon and a more attainable goal. He is at heart, 
though he does not know it, a democrat. If I could have 
foreseen him—but I was strangely blind, I thought him like 
his father. If I had forseen—!” 

His voice trailed off again. Rivoli perfectly understood 
that his uncle regretted taking him into his confidence and 
feared his ability to carry out those vast plans of his. While 
he already hated the man who had supplanted him in Savola’s 
mind, he hugged himself with joy that it was too late and 
that he was too deep in his counsels to be discarded with 
impunity. There was no sign of this in his face or even 
voice but inwardly he registered a vow that this princely 
paragon for which his uncle sighed should prove a broken 
reed. Few things vexed Savola more than for his prognos¬ 
tications to prove false. 

Rivoli, like his uncle, had ambitions and dreamed dreams, 
but the central feature of his dreams was not triumphant 
democracy, it was the more common and more easily achieved 
rule of one despot—Luigi Rivoli! The accumulation of vast 
power, wealth and glory for one person’s advantage—Luigi 
Rivoli’s! In short, his life was consecrated to his own ad¬ 
vantage. 

Savola began speaking of international politics and a jour¬ 
ney he must make and of the future. His voice became 
clearer as he spoke, his bent figure more upright. Rivoli, 
watching him, decided he must still walk warily. 

“The time will come when we shall sweep down the 
tyrannies of thrones, when secret compacts and wars shall 
cease and those who govern shall know themselves to be 
the servants of the people! The people shall be no more mere 
providers for their appetites and slaves to their whims! 
There is but one way, Luigi, to do this. The very weight 


THE DEEDS OF YOUTH 


71 


of their misdeeds shall drive these men who rule into the path 
of reform. What the Church has failed to do with her 
threats of the future I,—yes I, Emanuel Savola,—will do, 
have done, by fear of immediate penalty. Yet let us keep 
clean hands and use our power for one object, one purpose, 
and remember those who do not work against us work for 
us!” 

He stopped abruptly, exhausted by his own fire, for he 
was indeed an old man! 

Rivoli spoke and his voice was smooth and respectful. 

"It is a great conception sir, and one which the Church 
herself can hardly condemn. By the way, the spy Becco 
wishes to get a friend of his taken on. Becco was one of 
your men. Is he reliable?” 

Savola frowned. He disliked the word spy, as Rivoli 
knew well. He disliked also that the machinery of his or¬ 
ganization should be brought so crudely to his notice. He 
had given all that into Rivoli’s hands because he disliked it. 
Rivoli knew all these dislikes. 

“Becco is a good servant to the Guild,” he said with an 
accent on the word 'servant.' "I always found him discreet, 
but take no one into the inner Service till you have proved 
him. Were this man’s parents orthodox?” 

Luigi shrugged his shoulders. 

“It is of moment,” said Savola quietly. “The faith of a 
man’s parents, my dear Luigi, is of more importance than 
his immediate convictions.” 

Soon after this Rivoli took his departure. He chose to 
go by the longest route, because so doing he passed a certain 
house in whose upper windows a light was burning. Then 
Mile. Maria Lais was really at home as she had said! 

Such was the suspicious nature of the man that he could 
not accept the word of the one woman on whom the whole 


72 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


force of his passions was bent, without visible confirmation. 
She had sent him word that she could not attend a certain 
party that evening where they were to have met, owing to 
indisposition. He railed at the circumstances that prevented 
their meeting. He was anxious for her health, but his doubt¬ 
ing heart was relieved of a shadow by the tell-tale light in 
her window. 


CHAPTER VII 


RAPHAEL 

TT was in 1826 that Count Raphael first met the king of 

Zinnia and the acquaintance rapidly ripened into a friend¬ 
ship which lasted all their lives in spite of the disastrous 
career of the younger man. 

King Augustine appears to have been paying a cere¬ 
monious visit to one of his own nobles and amongst the 
guests was the young Romanzian, whose vitality and enjoy¬ 
ment of life seems to have greatly attracted the delicate, 
languid king. The friendship thus commenced resulted in 
a less ceremonious visit on the part of His Majesty to Aren- 
zano itself, where he seems to have taken part in the highly 
exciting and hazardous wolf drives, which, under the direc¬ 
tion of Prince d’Arenzano and Count Raphael, had become 
a very specialized sport in the late autumn season. 

The d’Arenzano family, and more especially Count 
Raphael and Count Sylvestro, paid several visits to Mantos 
and no doubt enlivened that chilling court and provided it 
with thrills of excitement not at all in acccordance with its 
ordinary frigid routine. 

It is a curious coincidence that both King Augustine and 
the d’Arenzanos owed much to an Englishman. Leslie 

73 


74 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Thornton, the King’s devoted friend, had come by accident 
into his life during his father’s reign and was cut adrift from 
him by no fault of his own in the boy’s greatest need. He 
returned in time to save him from utter ruin consequent on 
the cruelly unsympathetic rule of the regent, Prince Ruachi, 
which indeed did permanently injure the health of the hyper¬ 
sensitive young king. 

From that day till his death, Thornton never left his ser¬ 
vice, serving him with rare devotion. Amid all the intrigues 
and jealousies of the Court he appears to have led a secluded 
life, never really separated from his difficult royal friend but 
never intruding in public affairs. 

He did one thing for posterity in common with Carfax, 
he kept a voluminous journal which never saw the light of 
day till after King Augustine’s death and his own, though 
he left instructions for its use after a lapse of time and we 
have not scrupled to draw on it for these chronicles. 

Mr. Thornton seems to have greatly approved the friend¬ 
ship with the young d’Arenzanos, although his diaries be¬ 
tray much mental anxiety over the strenuous days of sport 
and adventure into which his king was led and for which 
his indifferent health hardly fitted him. 

On one visit to Mantos Count Raphael was instrumental 
in saving the king from an assassin, and carried a scar on 
his cheek as long as he lived as a memento. 

A friendship thus cemented would be broken with diffi¬ 
culty, yet in the autumn of the same year an event occurred 
which but for Thornton’s discretion would undoubtedly have 
shattered it. 

It is an event which reveals the wild vein of cruelty in 
the Count and the fact that danger to one brother provoked 
it is no excuse for what he did to another. It lays bare the 
oddly streaked nature of the man in whom good and ill in- 


RAPHAEL 


75 


stead of being interwoven seemed divided into distinct bands 
with no gradations to soften their violent contrast. 

thornton's diary 
“October 11th, 1828. 

“I trust this is the last wolf drive we shall attend. It is 
true that since our first experience there have been no serious 
accidents till now, when the Prince himself has come to grief, 
though I believe only slightly by their reckoning. It hap¬ 
pened this way. 

“We were with Count Raphael at one end of the line and 
the Prince with Sylvestro was at the other. The latter had 
had no luck that day and seeing a wolf emerge and stand a 
moment undecided as to its route, he waved his arms and 
shouted to attract its attention. He succeeded only too well. 
The apparently outraged animal sprang at the shelter and on 
to the Prince, who was borne to the ground. A terrible 
melee ensued. When matters were straightened out we saw 
a dead wolf on the ground, Sylvestro unharmed, but the 
Prince lying face downward, to all appearances dead. I 
heard Raphael cry out ‘Paul!’ in a tone of poignant anguish; 
then he flung Sylvestro aside with fierce curses and examined 
his brother. 

“I waited by the king, who was very white. Once we heard 
that the Prince was not dead but only hurt, he said quietly 
that we had better set off for the Castle and relieve them of 
trouble, which we did. 

‘‘Supper that night was a gloomy affair. Raphael was in 
an evil temper, Sylvestro miserably silent and Damien, 
though he did his best, obviously insufficient to cope with the 
situation. 

“Matters did not mend next morning. A ‘Court’ which 
should have been held by the Prince was taken by Raphael, 
who acts as Regent. Sylvestro did not appear and Damien 


76 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


suggested fishing for salmon in the Azibe. This pleased 
the king and we passed the day not unpleasantly. Sylves- 
tro did not appear that night. Raphael had recovered his 
spirits and was brilliantly and wickedly amusing, but Damien 
appeared to be on the point of boiling over. 

“The king asked for ‘Baby/ There was a faint hesitation 
and then Damien blurted out: 

“ ‘He’s hurt,—bitten by a dog.’ 

“We were much concerned, but Damien would say nothing 
else and Raphael put in smoothly: 

“ ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ 

“Whereupon his brother retorted hotly: 

“ ‘I’d worry the dog if I could!’ 

“Raphael laughed and plunged into talk again. 

“October 13 th. 

“Sylvestro was about today with his arm in a sling and 
looking very seedy. Even his smile was crooked and I 
never heard him laugh once. I am scarcely sorry we are 
leaving to-morrow for everyone seems a little unhinged and 
Raphael is fully occupied with the Prince, who progresses 
well, we are told. I fancy Raphael must have been acting 
as night nurse, for he looks so haggard, almost as a man 
walking in his sleep. 

“He was playing cards with the King and I heard the 
latter exclaim: 

“ ‘Good heavens man, are you asleep!’ 

“Raphael stretched his arms. 

“ ‘Can’t a man revoke on Thursday sir, when he hasn’t 
been to bed since Tuesday?’ 

“It was only eleven but we retired after that. 

“I had written so far last night when Damien came to my 
door much agitated. He wanted to know if I had any 
sleeping stuff with me such as the King has to take at times. 


RAPHAEL 


77 


Sylvestro couldn't sleep and was in pain. Raphael had sent 
him, I gathered. 

“I asked what had happened to the dog as I hurriedly 
sought the medicine. The boy broke out into passionate 
wrath. 

“ ‘Dog I There's no dog—It’s that devil Raphael, who did 
it because Sylvestro got Paul hurt!’ 

“Utterly bewildered, I demanded explanation. 

“ ‘Oh, he raked up some old law, and accused Sylvestro 
of endangering the Seigneur’s life. Cellino could not pre¬ 
vent him. The penalty for that is branding. The beastly 
old irons are all there—but not a man would do it of course, 
so Raphael did it himself and now the wound’s poisoned and 
he talks casually of Sylvestro losing his arm, the brute! 
Is that the stuff? Thanks.’ 

“With that he hurried off with the strong narcotic, which 
is diluted to suit my king’s need. I remained walking up 
and down, trying to master my horror. Could Raphael be 
guilty of such uncivilized cruelty? His indifference even 
in the presence of his victim was evident. His callous facing 
of possibilities, incredible. A phrase I had once heard Syl¬ 
vestro use came back to me. 

“ ‘Raphael’s such a revengeful brute!’ 

“I had taken it as one of ‘Baby’s’ extravagances, and be¬ 
hold it is insufficient! 

“Then I remembered Raphael’s agonized cry when he 
thought his brother was killed and his savage anger with 
everyone afterward. It was not only revenge for the 
Prince’s injury that had prompted his wicked deed and yet— 
he is the man who saved the king’s life! 

“I was disturbed again. This time it was Romano, 
Raphael’s incomparable servant, trim and immaculate as 
usual. 

“Would I be so good as to explain to Count Raphael the 


78 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


strength of the dose? How strong may he give it? He is 
anxious not to cause Count Sylvestro discomfort. 

“Discomfort! I followed Romano to Sylvestro’s room. 
Crouching against the door and weeping bitterly was Syl¬ 
vestro’s servant, Ugo. At sight of me he fell on his knees 
and caught my hand. 

“ ‘Excellency! They have shut me out and the Count 
Raphael will kill him!’ 

“Romano pushed him contemptuously aside. 

“ ‘We need no pestilent fools!’ he cried. ‘Dost thou sup¬ 
pose, thou thrice born idiot of the plains, that the Cavallero 
Thornton will countenance a murder, or Count Damien, or 
I? It is thy noise we cannot stomach! Come Excellency.’ 

“We went in. 

“Sylvestro was lying on the bed half undressed, his face 
white and drawn with pain. Damien stood by him, torn by 
helpless pity. Raphael lay comfortably back in a chair by 
the fire, doing nothing, the bottle that I had sent and a glass 
at his side. He rose and faced me. 

“ ‘I am sorry to trouble you, but these new drugs are not 
things to play with. I am not sure of the dose. It should 
be a heavy one to take effect. How much can I safely give ?’ 

“I could hardly bring myself to answer him, and hurried 
to examine the invalid. He was in a very bad way, burning 
with fever, and with a pulse that fluctuated wildly. Still, 
having regard to his abnormal strength, I was inclined to 
venture on a heroic dose. 

“I poured it out and took it across to him. Raphael fol¬ 
lowed me and leaned over the bed to raise his brother, but 
at the sound of his voice Sylvestro started, shivered, and 
burst into tears. I pushed Raphael away somewhat casually, 
gave my medicine, and was conscious of fierce anger, barely 
controlled, standing by my side. However, Sylvestro seemed 
to regain a little reassurance from the dose, or my presence, 


RAPHAEL 


79 


though his suffering was still too great for him to be con¬ 
scious of much else. He seemed to grope pitifully for sup¬ 
port. Damien looked at me with aching eyes. 

“ Tm no good as a nurse!’ he groaned. 

‘'Suddenly Raphael pushed me roughly away and slid his 
own arm under the sick man, saying very gently: 'It’s all 
right, Baby, you are going to sleep.’ And, as by a miracle, 
Sylvestro turned and settled himself in his brother’s arms and 
sank into silence, which would end in blessed oblivion. 
Raphael turned his head and flung at us with a mocking 
smile: 

“ 'Need you all spend the night here in case I strangle him 
in his sleep?’ 

"I could find nothing to say to Damien when we came 
away, and I am utterly disinclined for sleep. What hor¬ 
rified me the most is that no one seems particularly sur¬ 
prised at Raphael’s behavior. I have never quite trusted 
him, but this callous cruelty is revolting. There is no vice I 
could not more easily forgive! 

"October 15th. 

"We shall be in Mantos again tomorrow. Before leaving 
Arenzano this morning I went to say good-bye to Sylvestro 
but almost backed out at finding Raphael there dressing the 
wounded hand. The invalid looked wretchedly ill but was 
evidently better. 

" 'I’m all right this morning,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but this 
ruffian insists on keeping me in bed in revenge for my keep¬ 
ing him up all night. Isn’t he a brute ?’ 

" ‘Mr. Thornton has long been of that opinion,’ Raphael 
said coolly, ‘and it’s no use trying to keep things up, Baby. 
He knows the horrid truth.’ 

"Sylvestro demanded to know what idiot had told me, 
and betrayed all the embarassment that should have been 
his brother’s. 


80 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“When I left Raphael followed me out, to my wrath. 

“ T thought you might like to speak to me/ he said softly, 
closing the door behind us. 

“I told him I should be content never to speak to him 
again. 

“ 'You can easily achieve that,’ he retorted lightly. 'You 
have only to explain the mad-dog episode to the king. Per¬ 
haps you have done so?’ 

“I could not explain to him how I shrank from tearing 
from my King the friend of his heart, as the story must 
inevitably do. I did say, however, that I had to remember 
the possibility of his turning on a friend, since even his own 
brother was not safe, and for once he had no retort ready. 

“ 'You must use your own discretion of course,’ he said 
and went away. 

“I did not see him again till we were starting and then 
he was talking to the king in the airy way His Majesty 
finds so fascinating, apologizing for the invalids most grace¬ 
fully. 

“How much does he really care? Am I to tell the king?” 

The matter seems to have been left in abeyance. Thorn¬ 
ton’s reluctance to tell His Majesty was very strong and we 
may be sure consideration for Count Raphael was not the 
cause. 

The Count disappeared from the family circle for a time 
and Thornton’s only knowledge of what occurred was 
gleaned from a letter from Count Sylvestro. 

“October 28th. 

“Dear Thornton. In answer to your inquiries I can report 
all well here. Max is promoted to a pony and bids fair to 
become a good horseman. Paul is entirely himself again, 
but I am the guilty cause of a family quarrel which has led 
to Raphael’s retirement from our happy circle. It’s all 


RAPHAEL 


81 


through that beastly hand of mine. Damien considered it 
his duty to tell Paul to examine the official records of the 
days he was ill and so—as you English say—'the fat was in 
the fire.’ There was a row royal, and I felt like a bone 
between angry brothers. Nobody cared what the poor bone 
thought of it! The upshot was that Paul deposed Raphael 
from his 'Regency’ and put Orsena in his place, since I de¬ 
clined the responsibility. ‘Regency’ isn’t in my line at all. 
Anyhow, Raphael has gone and for certain will never love 
me any more. And Paul deprived of his society isn’t all 
honey. So there we are!” 

At the end of December, King Augustine wrote to invite 
Count Raphael to spend the New Year with him and this 
produced a crisis. 

The Count wrote to Thornton, taunting him with his si¬ 
lence and declining to be indebted to him any more, and wrote 
his own account of the unhappy affair to the king. Thorn¬ 
ton preserved his letter, but the king burned his. He asked 
Thornton some questions and then never alluded to it again. 
Later on he renewed his friendship with Count Raphael. 
He seems to have been more convinced of the latter’s peni¬ 
tence than Thornton was, who, at the best, considered the 
Count bitterly ashamed of his want of self-control. 

The following autumn came the adventure with brigands 
which nearly wiped out for good and all the whole d’Aren- 
zano family with the exception of little Max, then aged seven. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGANDS 

S AVOLA finally decided he could do no longer without 
the co-operation of the young Minister. He gave Rivoli 
orders that he was to be Toped in/ 

Rivoli received the order with outward calm and inward 
fury. He was convinced that once Prince d’Arenzano came 
within Savola’s clutches his own day of authority was over. 

There was a crudity in the scheme which he concocted to 
save the situation which would have been impossible to his 
cool judgment later on. He decided that the d’Arenzanos 
were inimical to his interests, and must therefore be removed 
from his path, or that such a blow must be dealt the Chief 
Minister’s prestige that his immediate popularity should be 
weakened. 

Two notorious brigands, who for some time had terror¬ 
ized an ill governed province, had been captured, tried and 
condemned to death. Their connection with one of the many 
secret societies of the day had not transpired in the trial 
and it was a surprise to most people when talk of reprieve or 
even pardon filled the air. 

At this juncture of affairs, King Frederick was asked to 
Arenzano on a friendly shooting visit and accepted. 

82 


ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGANDS 


83 


Count Raphael was summoned from his voluntary exile 
and perfect harmony seems to have been re-established in 
spite of the painful episode of the previous autumn. 

The best account of the romantic adventure is found in a 
letter from Sylvestro to Mr. Thornton, who, on King Augus¬ 
tine’s command, had despatched a courier to Arenzano on 
first hearing of the affair, for authentic particulars. 

“Arenzano, September 10th. 

“Dear Thornton:— 

“His Majesty is very kind to be so concerned in the family 
health, which certainly for the moment is at a low ebb, 
though, as this letter will convince you, not so low as rumor 
would have it, one at least of the family being in a con¬ 
dition to put pen to paper. Here is a plain unvarnished tale 
for His Majesty, to go with the formal acknowledgements 
and answer to his kindly letter. 

“The affair, as first conceived, was an informal pleasure 
party. King Frederick was here and all the family to meet 
him. We had been shooting near Trevasca—where as you 
know the king has a small estate of his own. Before start¬ 
ing on the long ride back we were to have refreshments at 
a small disused mill-house which is on our side of the bound¬ 
ary line. The king had no escort but ourselves. Two men 
were sent ahead to prepare the meal. They, poor devils, 
were seized, bound, and gagged as they entered the sup¬ 
posed empty house. Raphael and Damien were the next to 
enter the mouse-trap and were overpowered in turn, though 
heaven knows Raphael made them pay for it! Then I, 
marching happily along before the king and Paul, walked 
right into the ruffians’ arms. Imagine our feelings, knowing 
who was coming and unable to give warning! Did I say 
two stoutish brigands sat on each of our forms? We had 
no arms, and no time to draw our knives. I expect we all 


84 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


made good though useless efforts to bite through our gags. 
They let Paul and the king walk straight into the room where 
our little feast was prepared and then as Paul’s amazed 
glance fell on us, they fell on him! I thought he meant to 
put up a big fight, but he suddenly desisted and seeing the 
king was held and not bound, demanded of our captors to 
state their desires like reasonable men. Well, they wanted 
nothing less than the complete pardon of two notorious rob¬ 
bers, who had been condemned to death the previous week, 
and who were to be executed in two days’ time. It was quite 
obvious to me His Majesty would make no difficulty what¬ 
ever of getting us out of a scrape, and probably of finding 
some way out of his own dilemma afterwards, but they were 
cunning brigands. The pardon must be signed by the Chief 
Minister. Paul exchanged rapid confidences with the king 
in English, which language presumably our friends did not 
know. The result was the king shook his head and looked 
obstinate, but he’s a poor actor. However, the brigands ac¬ 
cepted my brother’s suggestion that if he was left alone with 
the king a few minutes he might bring him to reason. As 
this seemed to entail moving all of us, Paul also suggested 
that he and the king should retire to the small inner room 
which opened out of the big one and had no other door and 
only one small window high up, which could be easily watched 
from without, as he pointed out. Whatever may be the 
king’s limitations in the art of the stage, my brother is a 
past master of it, for he got his way and I, recollecting a cer¬ 
tain secret passage below the hearthstone in this inner room, 
had hard work not to complacently wink at Raphael. 

“The king appeared to take some persuading however. We 
could hear Paul’s voice raised loudly and convincingly and 
the king feebly answering. Finally a lower key was taken. 
To my strained ears the conversation assumed more the 
sound of a monologue than an argument. 


ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGANDS 


85 


“The polite brigands grew tired at last and flung open the 
door. 

“My! They were angry brigands then—polite no longer! 
We were less surprised than they to see Paul standing alone 
on the hearth declaiming Latin verse to empty walls. He ex¬ 
plained with great, if wasted, courtesy that the king, being 
a magician, had changed into a dove and flown out of the 
window. It will interest you to hear that they sent round to 
inquire of the guard if a bird had flown out—just to be on 
the safe side. Such a phenomenon not having happened, they 
told Paul that if he would not sign the pardon or tell them 
where the king was, they would destroy his brothers, one 
by one, beginning with his heir. Raphael’s nerve apparently 
gave way at this juncture. He said he didn’t want to die 
and would show them the secret passage. I think even Paul 
was thunderstruck for a moment, till Raphael demanded a 
ladder and began exploring the cornice, which was of painted 
wood. Presently he said he thought he had a clue and com¬ 
menced gravely to tap the walls inch by inch. This took 
nearly fifteen minutes and when one of the brutes tried to 
accelerate his memory by tapping him over the knuckles, he 
suddenly stopped and said that after all he had forgotten 
it. Then they really began to lose their tempers in a de¬ 
plorable manner, and I was the next victim. But my 
memory was always bad and not even the fire, lit to warm 
our festive party, could revive it. It might in the end, but 
Raphael clumped me on the head with a brotherly kick and 
I am not a competent narrator of the further proceedings. 

“Raphael, however, contrived to get his slim hands free 
from the cords and sprang at the nearest man, knocking him 
headlong and seized his knife. Somehow he fought them 
back and got to Paul, while Damien, bound as he was, flung 
himself in the way of the brigands, keeping them back while 
Raphael slashed the rope with which Paul had been retied. 


86 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


It took about three seconds I believe. Then they had a glori¬ 
ous time. It turned me green to lie there, merely a mat for 
heavy feet. They were ten to three, but our side got a 
couple—not bad as they had taken our knives. That made 
matters more even. Then the king, with a party of vil¬ 
lagers, arrived just in time to see Paul subside under his 
seventeenth wound and Raphael, standing over him, was 
stabbed as he fell across Paul, getting a knife in his arm 
that was aimed at our Seigneur’s heart. Damien was already 
disposed of for the moment and I, as stated, a mere mat. 

“At the sight of reinforcements the enemy fled, and while 
some pursued, others attended to the casualties. 

"1. The Prince, with seventeen wounds, chiefly on hands 
and arms. 

“2. One brother and heir, bleeding cheerfully to death with 
a severed artery and many lesser hurts. 

“3. One more brother insensible and useless. 

“4. One other badly hurt but sensible, who was useful in 
tying up the wounded artery. 

“5. Three wounded brigands and three dead ones. 

“Not a bad fight on the whole and the original brigands, 
the causa belli, are duly executed. I believe secretly that 
His Majesty is of opinion that their death is dearly bought, 
since his Chief Minister lies low and his family with him. 

“There is the plain tale devoid of decorations. 

“We are all alive, though I had a horrible fear of being 
left to be crushed beneath the weight of ministerial respon¬ 
sibility. Paul is now mending and Raphael may—if he keeps 
quiet. At present if he lifts his arm, he faints and he likes 
experimenting. Damien is crawling about and we have races 
as to which can crawl fastest. I can at present. 

“Assure His Majesty of our deepest respects and grate¬ 
fulness for his sympathy and tell him such parts of the 


ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGANDS 


87 


above narrative as you may deem suitable. I am, my dear 
sir, your devoted friend, 

“Sylvestro d , Arenzano. ,, 

So much for the Count’s cheerful description of the epic 
encounter, which is confirmed by Cellino’s more tragic record. 

Cellino gives a vivid picture of the return of the unfor¬ 
tunate d’Arenzanos and of the king’s despair. The greatest 
surgeons in the country were summoned and all that the skill 
and knowledge of those days could contrive was done. But 
the two elder d’Arenzanos lay for some weeks in danger and 
it was largely owing to Count Raphael’s selfless devotion 
that the Prince’s life was saved. 

The Count was really the most seriously injured of all 
though the fever which fell on the Prince passed him by. 
Cellino’s account of the affair is worth giving for the fur¬ 
ther revelation it throws on the Count’s character. 

CELLINO'S DIARY 

“October 28th. The Prince makes no progress and is still 
wildly delirious. His nurses are distracted how to keep him 
still, for on his stillness depends his life, while his great 
strength renders this a stupendous task. 

“29th. Last night, after my turn of watching by the 
Prince, I was sleeping in the corridor outside his room when 
Sister Veronica came out wringing her hands. 

“ 'Sir,’ she entreated, 'go and fetch Count Raphael. The 
Prince calls for him unceasingly and nothing else will quiet 
him.’ 

“I reminded her that Count Raphael must not move him¬ 
self and she said despairingly that in that case she feared 
the Prince must die. 

“I went into the room with her and listened to his con- 


88 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


tinuous cry for his brother, and then in despair went to 
Count Sylvestro. My heart bled for the dilemma into which 
I had to plunge him. He went to the Prince’s bedside him¬ 
self and then without a word more to Count Raphael’s room, 
but, getting there his courage failed him and he leaned 
against the wall, undecided and uncertain. There we stayed 
for quite five minutes. My heart ached with pity for him, 
but it was not my burden. How could I say who must live 
or die? 

“At last he drew a long breath and went in. 

“Count Raphael was not asleep and he spoke when Romano 
would have stopped us. 

“ ‘Is Paul worse ?’ demanded the Count. 

“ ‘He is bad and he wants you, Raphael,’ murmured poor 
Count Sylvestro, appalled now he was face to face with his 
brother’s helplessness. ‘They say it will kill you if you go,’ 
he added desperately, ‘but if you don’t Paul will die!’ 

“Raphael commanded Romano to bring him some clothes, 
and Romano dared not disobey. We got him to the Prince’s 
room somehow but it must have cost him prodigious will 
power. The Prince knew him at once and tried to sit up. 
The Count put his hand on his chest and told him he’d go 
unless he kept quiet. His Highness lay still now but began 
talking more wildly than ever. Never shall I forget the 
words in that cold dawn, so cruelly distinct in spite of his 
delirium and fever. 

“‘You mustn’t let me die while he’s alive! Raphael 
mustn’t succeed me, I can’t trust him!—’ 

“And Count Raphael sat on his brother’s bed with his one 
free arm (the other was in a sling) about him keeping guard 
over those restless limbs and he said: 

“ ‘You needn’t bother about it Paul, he’s dead already.’ 

“ ‘Arej> you quite sure ?’ demanded the fever stricken 
Prince, insistent. 


ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGANDS 


89 


“ ‘As dead as mutton—go to sleep.’ 

“Then there was quiet for a few minutes, but he broke 
out again the same dreadful question. The Sister pulled 
out her rosary and began to pray. The sweat poured off my 
face. Count Raphael went on assuring him time after time 
of his own death. 

“ ‘You understand why?’ the Prince said in quick monoto¬ 
nous tones. ‘He tortured Baby—he perverted the law, he 
mustn’t rule.’ 

“ ‘Yes, I know. He won’t ever rule, Paul, don’t fear 
about it.’ 

“ ‘Oh for God’s sake come away!’ wailed Count Sylves- 
tro. 

“His brother told him fiercely to hold his tongue, and the 
voice droned on: 

“ ‘He might even hurt Max—you mustn’t let me die till 
he’s dead.’ 

“At that Count Sylvestro burst into tears, for we all know 
how Count Raphael loves the little Count. But the droning 
voice got weaker and the drug began to take effect, he turned 
towards the man who held him so firmly and muttered: 

“ ‘Well if you say he’s dead, it’s all right, I’ll take your 
word.’ Whereon he settled himself to sleep. 

“ ‘Shield the light,’ said Count Raphael over his shoulder 
and we darkened the already dark room. I put down the 
Count’s white face to the cruel words, and marvelled a little 
as he put his head on the pillow by his brother’s. We stood 
holding our breath for a while. Then the doctor approached 
and as he did so Count Raphael slipped to the floor in a 
huddled heap. Only dire necessity held us silent as we 
hurriedly moved him, for we saw, too late, that the struggles 
of the delirious man had nearly achieved his terrible desire. 
The ligature on the Count’s arm had slipped and the newly 
healed wound had broken open afresh. He had let it be so 


90 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


until his brother slept. For the present the Prince’s danger 
is over, but it looks as if the fear which had eaten into his 
heart since the day he learned of the Count’s perverted judg¬ 
ment, would never be possible again. 

“November 10th. 

“Count Raphael continues to live against his own wish 
apparently. He will see no one and lies with his face to the 
wall. 

“The Prince makes rapid progress. Sister Veronica told 
me that the little Count came to see him today. She feared 
he might be frightened but this is what happened. He en¬ 
tered with his funny little bow to his brother, climbed up 
on to his bed and kissed the bandaged hands. 

“ ‘Are you better sir, dear?’ he asked, ‘and was it a fall 
or a fight ?’ 

“He was told a fight. 

“ ‘Sylvestro was afraid you would not get well, or Raphael 
either and that he would have to be Prince, and he hated it. 
I lit two candles every day for you to our Lady, and one 
for Raphael, but I chose a big one for him.’ Then he added 
quickly, ‘I’m not crying, Paul, it’s only the smell of the stuff 
they put on your hands. Shall I go now ?’ 

“He went quite naturally, but once outside, burst into 
tears because his brother looked so white. 

“November 15. 

“The Prince is up today and went as far as Count 
Raphael’s room. He knows nothing of what occurred that 
terrible night. Count Raphael would hardly speak to him I 
hear. 

“November 25. 

“It is heart-breaking. The Count still rejects all advances 
from His Highness and he has ceased to visit him. He just 
puts it down to his illness. The Count is never a good con¬ 
valescent, but to us, who know, it is a different matter. I 


ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGANDS 


91 


could bear it no longer to-day and went to Count Sylvestro 
and begged him to explain to his brother. 

‘‘November 27. 

“The Prince sent for me this morning and asked about 
that night. He said he had not the heart to question Count 
Sylvestro too closely. 

“Presently he made me take him to Count Raphael’s 
room. He still needs an arm for any distance. 

“ ‘I must make my peace if I can/ he said, ‘though it’s the 
devil of a business. I swear I did not know I thought like 
that, but how am I to convince him ?’ 

“I do not know how he did it, though the hardest man 
would find it difficult to resist our Prince when he set out to 
obtain a favor.” 


CHAPTER IX 


MARIA LAIS 

A S far as can be ascertained, it was about 1829 that 
Count Raphael first met the beautiful Maria Lais. 

Of all the many sins to be laid to his charge, his dealing 
with this young devotee is perhaps the most unforgiveable, 
apart from the terrible consequences to which it led. 

Maria Lais was the saintly daughter of worldly parents. 
Educated in the cloisters and radiating so spiritual an at¬ 
mosphere that those about her noted its pure fragrance even 
before her amazing beauty dazzled their senses, it seemed 
a mystery to many that she escaped a vocation. 

Probably her parents had no mind to devote her loveliness 
to a problematic world when it could be turned to their 
advantage in a nearer and by no means problematic one. At 
all events they favored Luigi Rivoli’s somewhat slow wooing, 
urging it, one may suspect, with undiplomatic persistence. 
But Rivoli was not to be hurried. The Laises were of no 
social standing and such a match might possibly find little 
favor in Savola’s eyes. 

Nevertheless he was deeply and passionately in love. It 
is impossible to doubt it in the light of his behavior after 
the catastrophe. In losing Maria Lais, he lost that rudi- 

92 


MARIA LAIS 


93 


mentary fragment of a soul which might, under different 
circumstances, have grown to normal proportions. 

And he lost her through the deliberate cruelty of Raphael 
d’Arenzano. 

Maria Lais, no doubt, believed herself to be in love with 
Rivoli as far as she could at that time be in love with any¬ 
thing below those spiritual regions which were her natural 
home. There are a few letters of hers extant, written to 
the Mother Superior of the Convent where her young days 
were spent. It is not possible to read them and doubt their 
genuine purity and her simplicity of mind. At the same time 
she writes with a fervor that suggests a capability for passion 
which not infrequently has part in the making of a saint. 

Where Raphael d’Arenzano first met this beautiful girl 
we do not know. They hardly moved in the same social 
circle, but meet her he did and he appears to have been less 
attracted by her physical charms than by curiosity as to the 
real significance of her spiritual fragrance. He must have 
discerned that it was no mere pose. One can also surmise 
that he discerned the woman behind the saint and was inter¬ 
ested in watching a struggle between the two. Such a sur¬ 
mise is quite compatible with what we know of him. A mere 
vulgar intrigue would have had no interest for him without 
a still deeper motive. 

But there did exist a deeper motive. 

It is no surmise to state that at that period Count Raphael 
had had more than one encounter with the President of the 
Guild of St. Augustine. Those picturesque vows he had 
taken as a boy sat lightly on him. He had been forcibly 
reminded of them by the Guild and called on to submit to 
the prescribed penalty more than once. The alternative of 
renouncing membership of the Guild involved a publicity and 
scandal he was unwilling to face. Therefore he shrugged 
his shoulders and submitted with the best face he could, so 


94 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 

one must believe. It did not, however, tend to make him 
cordial to Luigi Rivoli. 

Be his motives what they would, he set himself to study 
the girl whom Rivoli loved, succeeded, first, in convincing 
her of his own need of reformation, secondly, of her peculiar 
fitness for that dangerous task, and thirdly, of her own over¬ 
whelming love for him. 

The probabilities are that he never made love to her at all, 
that was not his way; also there would have been intervention 
from the parents, who could not have hoped to entrap so big 
a fish into the matrimonial net. 

The few particulars we have point to the view that he led 
the girl to believe that he withheld any declaration because 
of her engagement to Rivoli. She therefore broke off that 
engagement and arranged a meeting to tell him what she 
had done. : | 

But Raphael was already tired of his experiment; he had 
not only proved his point that the woman could over-ride the 
saint but he had avenged himself on Rivoli to his own evil 
satisfaction. He obeyed Maria’s summons because he con¬ 
sidered it time to end the episode. It took him perhaps ten 
minutes to convince her that he had not the remotest idea 
of marriage with her. 

His success was complete. 

He could have made whatever bargain he liked with 
Maria Lais, saint that had been, lover that was. He did 
not, however, want her on any terms. This inexorable fact 
penetrated to her soul at last and drew out the bitter cry: 

“But what am I to do?” 

He told her with perfect and careful courtesy that, if she 
did not care to re-establish her engagement, she should 
travel; that with her beauty and money there was no capital 
in Europe where she would not find the world at her feet. 

He spoke smoothly enough till she forced plainer words 


MARIA LAIS 


95 


from him and a flick of anger. Then he said unforgettable 
and unforgiveable things. His solitary bid for decency was 
that he broke up her mountainous love into the dust of hate, 
and having done that left her. He believed quite sincerely 
the hate would be good medicine for her sickness. 

Apart from the appalling wickedness of it as it stood, 
could he have foreseen that from the ashes of a saint may 
be born a devil ? 

She took his advice and travelled, and shortly those in 
touch with a certain side of life heard of her and of her 
beauty in Paris, Vienna, St. Petersburg. She was called 
La belle Dame sans Merci. 

In a certain lonely house in Cardozza, a man to whom 
these rumors had come, heard of them, learned they were 
more than rumors, and the last spark of decent humanity 
died in his heart. He swore by the only thing left sacred 
to him—his ambition—that if it involved the cost of that 
ambition itself, Maria Lais (and incidentally Luigi Rivoli) 
should be avenged on the House of Arenzano, and the oath 
was heard and registered in the inner court of justice that 
watches over the stumbling steps of humanity. 

But Raphael d’Arenzano went away on one of his lonely 
expeditions, and had greater trouble than usual to convince 
his rudimentary conscience that he had transgressed no item 
of his private code. Indeed, he so entirely failed to secure 
such an acquittal that he returned abruptly to Cardozza, and 
for some months society found Count Raphael of a humor 
that it was dangerous to cross. 


CHAPTER X 


EPISODES 

I 

I N 1830 Count Sylvestro married. The first of Cellino’s 
eaglets to make the adventure, though plentiful had been 
the snares laid about their feet. 

Sylvestro was apparently not only a born gambler but a 
most open hearted lover, and the Prince had with difficulty 
rescued him from various undesirable matrimonial pro¬ 
jects, of which many amusing letters still exist, though space 
does not permit us to insert them here. Nor can we even 
give the delightful account of the final tempestuous court¬ 
ship which ended in a marriage, pre-eminently satisfactory 
to the whole family from the Prince himself down to little 
Max, who became the particular charge of the Count and 
Countess Sylvestro or, as they were always alluded to in the 
family letters, Count and Countess “Baby”—the old absurd 
nick-name having held its own. 

One may easily imagine that the gracious presence of a 
woman added again a softness to the grim walls of their 
home. She presided over their ceremonies with quaint 
dignity—she was very young—and on all occasions was 

96 


EPISODES 


97 


watched over and protected by her husband and brothers-in- 
law and guided along the very unfamiliar paths she had to 
tread, with a touching devotion. 

Pier own diary and letters are full of incidents, when in 
her apparent ignorance of men she came up against certain 
masculine angles and outlooks and still more frequently 
came in conflict with rigid laws and customs of the House. 

Now it would be Damien’s impassive quixotism, or her 
husband’s cheerful recklessness, or Raphael’s unaccountable 
moods, or the Prince’s imperious will and stormy temper. 
It must have taken time to find her feet in all these varying 
currents but she undoubtedly did so, and the sunny days held 
no hint of the black shadows which were to end her happy 
existence all too soon. 


II 

The Queen’s carriage was waiting at the Queen’s entrance. 
It had been waiting some time, and the tired horses shook 
their heads impatiently and the equally wearied footmen 
struggled to conceal their prodigious yawns, but still Her 
Majesty did not come. 

A sudden whirlwind within the entrance and Princess 
Tessa, escaping from the control of a discreet matron, ran 
to the top of the flight of steps and stood looking down at 
the waiting equipage with satisfaction. 

She was a quaint beflounced little creature, with a small 
sallow face and straight dark hair, and exceedingly wide¬ 
awake eyes. 

“I told you Mamma would be late,” she said scornfully, 
over her shoulder to the panting lady who followed her. 

But at that very moment Her Majesty appeared. The 
Chief Minister for the Crown walked by her side and was 


98 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


talking to her earnestly. Just behind them walked Her 
Majesty’s Equerry and Master of the Horse. 

They all three came to a stand on the top of the steps, and 
the Queen perceived Tessa. 

She turned round to her Equerry. 

“I forgot to tell you I was going to take Tessa,” she said. 

“At least, you are then certain of an amusing ride,” he 
murmured. 

He too had been waiting and was more than a trifle bored. 
The long hours of idle duty often bored him though he would 
not have admitted as much to his brother. 

The Queen turned for a final word to the Chief Minister. 
Count Raphael cast a critical look at the horses. 

“I shall sit in the back seat all alone,” announced Tessa 
suddenly, and she flew down the steps and into the carriage, 
and took up the position she had mentioned, spreading out 
her little belaced skirts and person as much as possible. 

“That’s my place, Princess,” said the Equerry languidly, 
but watching her with amused eyes. 

The child straightened her lips and looked back at him de¬ 
fiantly. 

“Tessa,” called the Queen, in her slow drawling voice. 
“You cannot sit there, Count Raphael is going with us.” 

She continued her talk with Prince d’Arenzano. 

Her Royal Highness showed no signs of moving. She 
looked furtively at the Count, whom she knew well to be her 
very good friend. 

“If I sit by Mamma my dress will be all crumpled, and no 
one will see me. I shall sit here, therefore.” 

“It’s not etiquette for me to sit beside Her Majesty,” 
replied Raphael persuasively. “I should have to drive in a 
carriage all alone. You would not like that, would you?” 

She looked doubtful, then her face cleared. 

“You can’t. It would take too much time to order a 


EPISODES 


99 


carriage. Mamma is very late now. She will give in if I 
sit tight. Then I can see who bows to her and who to me.” 

The Queen came down the steps. 

“It is all settled then, Paul. We’ll have the fete on the 
17th. I thought you said though, not very long ago, we had 
too many fetes!” 

She laughed as she looked at him. Queen Antoinette very 
much admired the Chief Minister. She was well aware that 
he often managed her, but she submitted in an indolent, tol¬ 
erant fashion. She was certain now that she was being 
“managed” but was unable to find the reason. It did not 
trouble her greatly. 

“Tessa, I told you to sit by me.” 

Tessa half shut her eyes and gripped the edge of the seat 
with her small fingers. 

“It makes me feel sick to ride facing,” she announced can¬ 
didly. “Count Raphael can have my place.” 

“It would make me feel far more sick to occupy a false 
position,” said Raphael plaintively, with a glance at his royal 
mistress. 

The Queen got in and leaned back wearily. 

“Don’t be tiresome, Tessa. It’s too hot to argue. Sit 
by me.” 

“I tore one dress this morning, and the Countess says it’s 
very extravagant,” she remarked gravely. 

The Queen stamped her foot. 

“We are late now; Count Raphael, make her obey.” 

Raphael assumed a helpless air. 

Prince d’Arenzano came to the door of the carriage. He 
looked at the Queen, and he looked at his brother, and finally 
he leaned forward and looked very firmly at the little Prin¬ 
cess who, naughty child that she was, answered his look with 
a coquettish pleading that made him long to smile back. 

“Princess,” he said, in his most peremptory and sternest 


100 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


manner, the most stern command that had ever fallen on her 
ears, "my brother is waiting to get in. Go and sit in your 
proper place.” 

She met his eyes defiantly and then meekly got up, and 
did as she was told. 

The Queen clapped her hands. 

“Oh, Prince,” she cried. “I’ll give you half my kingdom, 
if you will only come and take the Countess’s place—in the 
nursery!” 

The Prince shook his head: 

“I’ve a nursery of my own,” he said drily. “It consists of 
some millions of people and one small brother.” 

The little Princess never took her eyes from his face, and 
he, who had smiled at her mother, looked grave again when 
he looked back at her. 

The carriage started and Her Royal Highness was un¬ 
usually quiet. Presently Count Raphael leaned across to her. 

“Don’t be so downcast, Tessa,” he said, sympathetically. 
“He’s a bully, we know, but if you wait long enough you 
will get even with him.” 

“You’ll undo his good work, wicked man!” remarked the 
Queen. 

Tessa ignored them both. 

“Do people always do what he tell them?” she questioned. 

“Mostly.” 

“Why?” 

Raphael looked his despair. 

“I don’t know!” 

“Nor do I. I didn’t want to, but I did!” 

“A good thing too!” put in her mother severely. 

Tessa again ignored her, and continued to gaze at Raphael. 

“Do you do what he tells you?” 

“Quite often. It’s the easiest thing in the end.” 

“And Max?” 


EPISODES 


101 


“Oh yes, always.” 

“I wonder why we do,” murmured the child, looking away. 

“Don’t be so serious, Princess. See, there’s some one 
bowing to you. Will Your Majesty permit us to stop at 
Rumel’s?” 

“You spoil her dreadfully,” retorted the Queen, indulgent- 

!y- 

Rumel’s was raided for the biggest box of chocolates pro¬ 
curable. The Princess soon forgot her problem and pro¬ 
ceeded to enliven the drive with remarks which caused her 
mother assumed embarrassment and her Equerry infinite 
delight. 

“Paul would soon manage her,” he thought. “But I’m 
glad he can’t. I like her best as she is, the little imp!” 

Ill 

When the royal carriage had driven away, the Prince went 
back into the Palace with the air of a man who, having won 
a victory, must make haste to consolidate it. 

He went straight into the room where he knew His 
Majesty was awaiting him, with no impatience, be it noted. 

His Chief Minister closed the door, and said without pre¬ 
amble : 

“Her Majesty consents to postpone her visit, sir.” 

The King laid down his book, and regarded his Minister 
with an admiring smile. 

“Magician! And for how long?” 

“Long enough for our matter to be settled. Nothing can 
then be said as to undue influence and favoritism.” 

“But you will give Slavia the preference all the same?” 
questioned the King, with an ingratiating smile. 

“The preference will go to whatever country offers us the 
best terms; it’s purely a commercial affair.” 


102 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Still you are the judge of the terms.” 

“Yes; exactly.” 

There was a little silence which the King broke with a 
laugh. 

“You’ll do what you like, King Paul, and our humble 
wishes, as usual, go for nothing!” 

The Chief Minister swept round on him with swift anger. 

“Sir, I have asked you not to call me that! I am your 
Minister, and I am trying with all the wits which Heaven 
has given me to bring back to your country and mine a little 
of her former glory. If you are moved to do the same, then 
in God’s Name do it. Take my post. Be Minister and King 
too, and the hearts of your people will rejoice. But if not, 
then leave me free to accomplish the end you approve.” 

“My dear Paul, have I not left you free? When do I 
interfere?” 

“You would urge me now to consider your private con¬ 
venience, and Her Majesty’s, before the good of Romanzia. 
The thing is impossible. Her Majesty’s natural predilection 
for her own country might influence matters—your pardon, 
if I put it bluntly, sir—if she in any sense were a popular 
Queen, or cared anything for Romanzia; but you know that 
is not the case. This commercial treaty I am trying to make 
will be made on its own merits!” 

The King nodded. 

“I never supposed otherwise. I was only teasing you, 
mon ami. Tell me how you made Her Majesty postpone 
her visit to Slavia ?” 

“I represented to her that the new Austrian Ambassadress 
had succeeded, while in Naples, in establishing a Court 
around her that flung the Royal Court into the shade, and 
that we were all looking to her to keep that lady in her 
proper place here. It was a question of being beforehand; 
the Neapolitan Court had been neglectful of its dignity. Her 


EPISODES 


103 


Majesty is inclined to favor a fete to introduce Her Excel¬ 
lency to her new entourage.” 

The King stared at him with open admiration. 

“Magnificent!” he murmured. “All the same not so long 
ago you deprecated more fetes, you know.” 

“They will not be so costly as a Slavian visit might be 
just now!” returned the Prince drily. 

Again the King murmured, “Magnificent!” and then began 
to take an interest in the proposed fete. 

“Could dancers be arranged for? Those new dancers 
from Spain?” 

“That is a matter Your Majesty can very well settle with 
the Queen.” 

The Prince’s voice ceased to be dry, it was blunt. 

The King laughed with a little deprecating air. 

“Oh, my Paul, don’t be angry with me; but as I told you 
the Queen has been too occupied to see me for three days; 
they have been dull days!” He made a little grimace. 

Prince d’Arenzano looked at him with something akin to 
pity and more nearly connected with scorn, but he was case- 
hardened. King Frederick’s blind uxorious worship of the 
notoriously unfaithful Queen was one of the many little 
wheels of the machinery with which he had to push along 
his vast plans. He used it as he would have used anything 
to further those designs, but it grated on him. He had hoped 
better things of Frederick till hope had died; now his best 
desire was that the King should remain quietly acquiescent 
As a rule he was, but not to-day, because Her Majesty’s will 
concerning a projected visit to her own country was at 
stake. The Prince had had to give up two hours of precious 
time to carry out a small diplomatic manoeuvre. The petti¬ 
ness of it exasperated him. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE ASSERTS ITSELF 

I 

I N 1830 Savola, finding that Rivoli made no advance in 
‘Toping in” Prince d’Arenzano, made a bold bid himself 
for the young man’s support. He knew that age was creep¬ 
ing over him. He could never hope to reap the harvest of 
his life’s work, but he greatly desired to leave the harvest 
to a worthy heir and he saw that Rivoli was not worthy. 

The Chief Minister was more or less proving himself the 
champion of all those ideals which, in the days of the uni¬ 
versal republic, would, Savola believed, be the ordinary lot 
of all countries. His desire to link forces with the Prince 
became irresistible. 

One day therefore, the Prince received an order to attend 
a meeting in “Room 3” at nine in the evening, signed, not 
by the Council of Seven, but by the Master of the Guild 
itself. Its curt wording and tone were of intention to test 
what power the oath of obedience had over the ruler of 
Romanzia! 

The Prince read it, frowned, smiled, shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders and went. It was inconvenient, but an oath was an oath. 

104 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


105 


So far the Guild had not greatly interfered with him. He 
still regarded it as a possible regenerator of society, and was 
not averse to finding his younger supporters amongst its 
members. 

He was aware that its disciplinary measures had on more 
than one occasion been dealt out to his own family, and had 
felt slightly annoyed, since he considered himself, with rea¬ 
son, to be an efficient guardian of their morals; but he never 
regarded it in the light of a grievance. 

II 

The crypt of St. Augustine’s at that time covered far 
more ground than the church itself, and communicated by a 
subway with the street in which Rivoli lived. Prince 
d’Arenzano entered by the church, passed the warden on 
guard with a nod of recognition, and went down to the dimly 
lighted pillared hall, where the members robed for such ser¬ 
vices and functions as served to keep them in mind of their 
obligations to the Guild. 

Since it was the rule, the Prince donned his gown, per¬ 
haps just a little impatient at the formality and a little curi¬ 
ous as to the cause of the summons. He did not suppose he 
had broken any rule of the Order and, if the matter were 
political, he would be glad of the opportunity to state, once 
for all, that his position in the Guild, (where he held an 
official post,) and his public life had no connection with each 
other. 

The great crypt was deserted and but for one swinging 
oil-lamp, dark. The lamp lit the central way and left the 
pillared aisles in black shadow. 

The door at the end opened into a narrow stone passage 
still more feebly lighted by a little carrying lamp standing in 
a niche. He had been here before when the passage was 


106 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


brightly illuminated and many footsteps echoed down its 
length . Now, his own steps sounded a little too loudly in 
the silence. 

Coming into Room 3, from the dimness without, he was 
blinded by the sudden light and, as he turned to close the 
door, he saw his shadow painted on the wall outside, odd 
and grotesque on the rough stones. 

It was a small room, and furnished simply with a table 
and two chairs. There was a fire burning on the hearth and 
the air was heavy and close. The shade over the big lamp 
that stood on the table was so tilted that the light fell full 
on him as he entered. On the other side of the table sat a 
little old man with curious hawk-like eyes and a thin keen 
face. A fur rug was wrapt around his knees. He leaned 
forward as the Prince stopped, dazzled for the moment by the 
glare, and he put his hand on the shade but he said nothing. 

His visitor, suddenly conscious of remissness, raised his 
hand in salute. The shade was immediately readjusted and 
the circle of light confined to the table. 

“Sit down, Prince,” said Savola, waving his hand. 

Prince d’Arenzano took the empty chair, opposite the old 
man. 

“You are, I think, an official of the Guild ?” The voice 
was suave and friendly. 

The visitor touched the shining badge on his gown. 

“My duties have not been arduous, which is perhaps for¬ 
tunate, for I am rather a busy man, Master.” 

“I am well aware of it. I have sent for you to-night to 
talk over your intentions. It is possible we may be of use 
to each other.” 

The Prince answered steadily and courteously: 

“I am quite willing to tell you my intentions man to man, 
and I am willing to admit that the Guild has done something 
in preparing the ground for me. I have even thought it 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


107 


might do more. But I have no conception of the Guild as 
a body politic. ,, 

Savola’s thin lips twisted into a smile. His eyes, how¬ 
ever, remained veiled. 

“In that matter of the Bill against Bribery and Corruption 
in your first year of office, Prince. You may recollect that 
it very nearly passed into law against your reckoning and 
perhaps against your wishes?” 

The question was half implied. 

The Prince considered a moment. 

“Yes,” he said frankly, “I admit that if that Bill had 
passed, it would have troubled me. It was not meant to 
succeed. If it had, then the bigger measure of last year 
would never have been carried.” 

Savola nodded. “So I supposed. The first Bill failed 
because the Duke Avala failed to support it, and he failed 
to do so at my directions. I foresaw your stronger measure.” 

The Prince frowned. 

“For good or evil I can see no purpose in the Guild touch¬ 
ing politics.” 

Savola went on as if he had not spoken. 

“In 1828 you succeeded in carrying the Coinage Reform. 
But if Garno had not failed his following, on the night of 
the great debate, your narrow majority would never have 
carried the Bill. It was I who secured Garno’s absence. 
No—wait!” He raised his shrivelled hands as the Prince 
was about to speak in hot anger. “Wait, I have not finished 
yet. In 1829, you carried the Education Act through the 
support of the Church. The support of the Church depended 
on the Jesuits. It was I who bought them. I considered it 
worth while. It was a great Act.” 

The Prince sprang to his feet. 

“Sir,” he cried passionately, “what you are saying goes 
to prove that you, not I, rule Romanzia! I have not asked 


108 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


—I do not ask any such assistance from you. What I have 
to do I am competent to do myself—at present.” 

“I am glad you added that,” retorted the thin dry voice, 
with a certain acidity. “You think you can now stand on 
your own feet. Well, do not push away too soon the ladder 
by which you climbed!” 

“I climbed by no ladder but my own,” insisted the Prince 
fiercely. “If you are seeking to restore the power of the 
Jesuits in this country, you are working for nothing. It 
is a thing I will never permit.” 

The hawk-like eyes flashed open then, but there was a tinge 
of admiration in their glare. 

“How well it is to be young and so assured of authority! 
Calm yourself, Prince. I, too, will not permit it. They are 
the enemies to the rule of Liberty I seek; so whether you 
will or not, we are partners in that matter.” 

“I am at a loss to understand you, sir,” said the Prince 
coldly. 

“You surprise me! Listen again. I am old. I would 
avoid the vices of age: repetition and garrulity. The world 
has suffered for countless generations from the dominion of 
men who have never known the common life of man, never 
learned the law of obedience, or that sterner law which says: 
‘Work or starve/ The world has been ruled by those who 
have never been ruled, for their own benefit and the benefit 
of their order. One country has broken that vicious rule, 
but only by means as vicious and as destructive to Liberty 
as the power that has been broken. 

“Is it necessary for a country to heave itself to destruction 
before it can be born again? I say, No! The existing 
machinery of government, though in many cases obsolete or 
too complicated, yet on the whole is that best adapted for 
producing the best life for the community. The fault lies 
with those who work the machine. Those who brought it 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


109 


to birth were masters of government; they have passed, and 
left it to ignorant hands that heed neither its purpose nor 
its working, but who do believe it exists for their greater 
glory and the confusion of the rest of mankind! 

“But I—I who know—tell you the machinery is good! It 
needs only brains and trained hands to guide it. And these 
can best be found in the descendants of those who planned 
it originally. It would be the work of generations to train 
the ignorant to use it. It is for them to reap the fruits of it, 
to enjoy the results of their own labor, and to flourish on the 
toil of those who work the machinery for their benefit. Re¬ 
adjust your ideas. See once for all that it is the governing 
man who serves; the governed who are the real rulers. All 
the revolution that is needed is means to force the governing 
class to recognize that they are the servants of the people! 
You ”—he flashed round on him,—“you know this! What 
you don’t know is that, in order to drive the fact into the 
heads of your aristocrats, Force is necessary! Force! But it 
cannot come from the people!” 

The Prince moved restlessly. He listened with amaze¬ 
ment, but he sat with his face like a mask to conceal his 
secret mind from those keen eyes. The shade of the lamp 
was again tilted, and the light fell full on his face. He knew 
it but he let it be. 

Savola spoke eloquently, but the propositions he put out 
were all supposititious ones. He spoke of a Europe re¬ 
formed without revolution; of the possible establishment of 
a new force behind the existing Guild of St. Augustine. He 
spoke of nothing as actually existing, or even en train to 
exist. 

He voiced his most cherished ambitions as mere possible 
dreams. He alluded to the Guild of St. Augustine as the 
School from which such great results might spring. 

Prince d’Arenzano heard him to the end, his acute mind 


110 


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gauging and judging the man before him, his sanity—his 
power—his possibilities. That he was a danger to all for 
which Prince d’Arenzano stood he was certain; but was he 
a negative danger that would burn itself out in mad visions 
of universal power? Or was he actually a firebrand that 
might set the world in a blaze ? 

There darted across the mirror of his memory strange 
events in social life, unexpected actions by men of established 
characteristics. Was the barefaced system of blackmail 
which he discerned behind Savola’s clever sophistries re¬ 
sponsible for this? He was just thinking it was imperative 
to gain time and make sure, when Savola went one step too 
far. # 

There gleamed amid his glowing periods a sombre spark. 
He would never have uttered even to himself the sinister 
word “Assassination.” Like other dreamers he covered evil 
with ambiguous names. People were “removed” from the 
path of the World Reform. It was a mere gleam. 

At last he ended and there was silence. 

Prince d’Arenzano shifted his chair, and leaning his arms 
on the table, he looked thoughtfully at Savola. Then with 
quiet deliberation he altered the angle of the lamp-shade, so 
that the old lined face was illuminated. 

“I should like to be quite sure that I understand what it is 
you propose,” said the Prince. “You ask me to become one 
of a Council of Three, who, by extending the activities of the 
Guild of St. Augustine, would be able to more or less con¬ 
trol the Governments of Europe. You propose to use this 
power for the benefit of the people and the overthrowing of 
all those who resist their legitimate demands. You give me 
reason to believe that the Guild has already obtained influence 
over certain people in Romanzia. Am I to understand that 
this power is solely derived from the vows of obedience 
taken to the Guild, and renewed on entrance to what you call 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


111 


the Inner Circle, supplemented, it may be, by suitable propa¬ 
ganda by the officials ?” 

His alert eyes wei-e fixed on the face opposite, and he re¬ 
ceived in turn a look as searching as his own, but more in¬ 
scrutable, and more remote. 

“Am I to understand/' went on the Prince, “that Garno 
was influenced by his oath, or by your persuasion, or by your 
order, to relinquish his opposition to the Coinage Reform?” 

“What does it matter to you why he acted as he did ? You 
are old enough to have learned the wisdom of—ignorance!” 

“I have a weakness for keeping my hands clean.” 

Savola waved his hand scornfully. 

“You confess it is—a weakness?” 

The Prince was silent. 

“This is the question between us,” said Savola slowly. 
“Given the help of the Society—not the Guild—you may 

achieve your greatest dreams in ten years. Without it-” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“And you—yours?” 

Again Savola waved his hands. 

“My dreams? My ambitions? Not in a life-time! It is 
for the next generation that I work.” 

“I think,” said the Prince quietly, “that we both work for 
the future, but I repeat we must work apart.” 

He rose to his feet. 

Savola made a sign. Instantly, the Prince straightened 
himself and stood at attention as a soldier before his com¬ 
mander. It was an entirely intuitive movement, the trained 
eye obeying the know signal mechanically, yet he maintained 
his attitude. He was not prepared on the moment to throw 
over his allegiance to the Order. It might indeed be impera¬ 
tive to preserve it! 

Perhaps Savola read his thoughts. 



112 


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“You have taken the full oath of obedience to the Guild ?” 
he said sharply. 

“I admit it. If you are asking for my silence on what has 
passed between us, I understand that is obligatory, consider¬ 
ing my vows.” 

“Had I not been sure of that, you would not have heard 
it.” 

The Prince bit his lips: he was beginning to dislike the 
position. 

“You remember the first rule of the Order?” 

“Certainly. It is hardly likely to escape my memory to¬ 
day!” 

There was a note of warning in his voice, but Savola went 
on remorselessly. 

“Repeat it!” 

At this peremptory order, flung at him as he himself might 
fling an order to his lowest servant, the blood rushed to the 
Prince’s face. He held himself in with the greatest difficulty; 
still he did it—and he laughed. 

“You are bent on refreshing my memory, sir! The rule 
is: ‘Within the Order no title or rank or honor is recog¬ 
nized other than that pertaining to the Order itself.’ I ven¬ 
ture to think I am a very faithful member, sir!” 

His eyes laughed but his voice betrayed an infinitesimal 
amount of indignation. It was well done. Savola recog¬ 
nized a new quality in Prince d’Arenzano. He was a con¬ 
summate actor. 

“Your faith is not called into question.” 

“Then—why?” He gave a comprehending gesture. 

“Your memory might momentarily fail you—that is what 
I feared. So you think you can do without me, Prince?” 

The Prince bowed. 

“You may have cause to change your mind.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “A threat?” 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


113 


Savola shrugged his shoulders again, and then sank back 
in his chair. His eyes seemed to veil themselves, and he 
appeared a tired and even bored old man. He glanced at 
the fire and shivered. The rug had fallen from his knees 
and he seemed to lack strength to lift it. 

The Prince stepped swiftly round the table. 

“Allow me,” he said kindly, and picking up the rug he 
wrapped it round the shrunken figure. 

“You are kind, Prince. I regret we are not to work to¬ 
gether, for I am old and would like longer days with you 
than you are willing to give me—yet!” 

“You think we shall come to terms ?” He paused a 
moment, one hand resting on the back of a chair, and looked 
at Savola thoughtfully. Once more the keen eyes flashed up 
at him, and this time it was Savola who smiled. 

“I am sure of it. When I want a thing badly I get it.” 

“I understand. Am I dismissed?” He spoke with amused 
irony. 

The old man gave a sign of dismissal, and his visitor went 
thoughtfully away. 


Ill 

Rivoli’s house in the quiet street behind the Church of 
St. Augustine was a prosaic, respectable affair. He kept a 
few efficient servants and, on occasions, entertained in a 
dignified, superior way. His guests were usually scientific 
of legal lights, though now and again unexpected guests 
from quite other walks of life were present. On the first 
floor, facing the street and running the width of the house, 
was the room which was his particular sanctum, a big rather 
bare room. At one end was a large desk-like table with 
multitudinous drawers and complicated locks. At the ex¬ 
treme other end of the room was a long deal table with a 


114 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


sink at one end, taps, and odd appliances; and over it, a 
shelf filled with strange-shaped glass bottles, and bright in¬ 
struments, and china and glass trays. Between the windows 
was a bookcase filled with scientific works. 

Rivoli sat by the desk and read and re-read a cipher let¬ 
ter which was spread out before him. He had just received 
it, and the grimness of his face was small evidence of the 
agony within, where the shrunken measure of his soul 
shrivelled up before the decoded message, as ancient parch¬ 
ment shrivels at the flame. 

He had spent months in tracing Maria Lais and at last his 
agents had sent him this. Had he known anything of prayer, 
he would have prayed for their failure, that he might at 
least remember her, if he must needs keep her in mind, as 
something uniquely spiritual, standing apart from his cruelly 
cynical conception of womanhood. 

This episode of Maria Lais was now for him finished. 
Neither repentance nor suffering could restore to her what 
was lost, that white robe of ignorance which had stood for 
righteousness in his blinded eyes. He had not know till now 
that, behind his outraged pride as a man duped and fooled, 
there had lingered in him some hope that she had fled, not to 
the muddy waters of the world but to those cloisters where 
some remnants of her old sainthood might find a pitiful 
lodgement. That hope was dead forever. He took the let¬ 
ter and, holding it over a metal plate, burned it carefully 
and methodically. Then he re-registered a certain oath con¬ 
cerning the House of Arenzano. 

He rose and, crossing the room, took from the shelf 
above the long bare table a wooden box. It contained ap¬ 
parently nothing except drugs, but he touched a spring, 
opened a secret compartment and took from there a little 
brown book fastened with brass locks. Returning to his 
chair, he turned over its leaves. 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


115 


There were names on the top of each page, names or 
numbers, and beneath, in small clear writing, various state¬ 
ments concerning the names—Statements of vital interest to 
the person to whom they referred. He paused long over 
the name of Gaspar Sittola, put the book back and wrote a 
letter. 

4 ‘To Count Gaspar Sittola. 

“It is possible that you may be shortly applied to for a 
character of a certain servant, whom you may forget em¬ 
ploying. If, however, your memory should serve you well 
enough to recall his excellent and trustworthy character, and 
if through your medium he is fortunate enough to obtain 
the situation he desires, then it may be in the power of the 
Society of St. Augustine to secure for you the return of a 
certain letter of July 7th, 1827. The Guild desire to release 
you from needless anxiety about this letter, once they are 
convinced of your repentance of the indiscretion it reveals; 
and it offers you this opportunity of convincing them of the 
same. There is no occasion to communicate with the Coun¬ 
cil, who will be perfectly aware of whatever action you take 
in the matter. 

“Signed by order of the 

“Council of Seven.” 

The orders of the Council were invariably signed in this 
manner, and most members seem to have firmly believed in 
the mysterious Council, but who “the Seven” were, was one 
of the thrilling riddles of the Guild. For all one knew, they 
might include one’s next door neighbor, one’s bitterest foe 
or dearest friend. Under the Council’s orders, commands 
were given and deeds done which would have made the good 
Father Justine turn in his grave. 

The irony lay in the fact that this Council wsa practically 
non-existent. It was a figment of Rivoli’s fertile brain. A 
barrier behind which he was building up that secret power, 


116 


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which was not only to make him indispensable to Savola, 
but was to lead him to giddying heights of domination over 
lesser men. 

Having written the letter, he rang a bell and a man ap¬ 
peared. A harmless-looking individual with nothing what¬ 
ever to indicate that he was bound body and soul to the ser¬ 
vice of a man who held his life in his hands. 

Rivoli gave him the letter and a brief, significant order. 

“You are to see,” he said, “that the Steward of the Mes¬ 
sengers at the Orense Palace gives in his notice before the 
end of the month, or that the post is vacant by then.” 

The man simply bowed and went out. 

Rivoli rose from his chair with a little gesture as if he 
would repudiate something or someone. He went over to 
the bare table, hesitated awhile, and then slipped on a loose 
blouse over his coat and began to busy himself with his 
chemicals over the porcelain sink. 

Thus employed he had quite the appearance of an ordinary 
human being, engaged in ordinary pursuits, and amenable 
to ordinary emotions. 


IV 

A letter from Prince d’Arenzano to his brother, then vis¬ 
iting King Augustine of Zinnia. 

“July 19, 1831. 

“Dear Raphael:— 

“I am going to confide to your discretion an annoying 
episode of which I am not certain I have seen the end. Your 
opinion will assist my decision. 

“On July the twelfth, the fight over the re-distribution of 
the taxes began. Certain speeches were much in my mind 
when I returned and I had occasion to go down about two 
in the morning to my room to verify some figures which 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


117 


were bothering me. The night lamps were lit as usual and 
as I opened the door of the library I saw a man dart across 
to the inner door. It proved to be Benis, the new Steward of 
the Messengers. I did not handle him any too gently, but 
he was singularly self-possessed, and said he had awakened 
with a sudden fear that certain letters had been left in my 
room which should have been taken. It was a thin story 
and, as you may imagine, he was dismissed. Old Donati 
nearly had a fit when I told him. He assured me with tears 
in his eyes that the man had come to him with the best recom¬ 
mendations from Sittola. The last man was taken ill so 
suddenly that Donati said he had no time to get a substitute 
from Or sene. I told him to take on the job himself until 
he could get one of our own people, and dismissed the matter 
from my mind. 

‘Three days later I received a letter from that infernal 
Council of Seven, saying, if you please, that I was to re¬ 
instate Benis. You can guess the color of the atmosphere. 
I’m afraid I lost my temper. 

“Two days more and Benis had the effrontery to appear 
himself with a second ‘order.’ This time I used him to take 
a letter to the Council and to Rivoli, who is its mouthpiece. 
I expect he did not care for it for an answer came that T 
must obey the order or report myself in Room 7 on the 22nd.’ 

“This really passes a joke. Needless to say, I do not in¬ 
tend to reinstate Benis and I have very little inclination to 
report myself anywhere except with the purpose of telling 
the Council it’s not going to be my ‘vade mecurri in domestic 
life. 

“What Benis has to do with the Guild passes my under¬ 
standing but it might be well to understand! I don’t want 
to cross swords with Sittola at this moment. He has rather 
too much to say about the new bill. Imagine the absurdity 


118 


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of my being plagued with the ridiculous affair at such a 
time! I dare not express my real sentiments on paper. 

“Convey my affectionate esteem to the King, and my 
wishes for his good health and enjoyment of your incom¬ 
parable society! 

“I am your affectionate brother, 

“Paul d’Arenzano.” 

What Count Raphael thought of the “ridiculous affair” 
may be gathered from the fact that he abruptly quitted Zinnia 
at an hour’s notice and by dint of most strenuous efforts ar¬ 
rived at the Orense Palace with his man on the night of 
July 22nd. 

There he learned that His Highness had gone out late 
and had not so far returned. Whereupon the Count and his 
servant went out again, without even waiting for refresh¬ 
ment, or giving any explanation for their appearance. 

V 

Count Raphael had had more dealings with the orders of 
the Council of Seven than his eldest brother. Since it seems 
very unlikely he would have considered himself bound by an 
oath taken in boyhood, one must put down his silence con¬ 
cerning his experiences to something else than mere faith¬ 
fulness. Fear, in the ordinary sense, must be ruled out. A 
carefully thought out discretion, prompted by a pride that 
hid its wounds at all costs, better meets the case. At all 
events he was under no delusions as to the Council’s power 
of enforcing its threats. 

He was perfectly aware that in Rivoli, he had an implac¬ 
able enemy, who would stop at nothing to repay that wrong 
which Raphael cursed himself a hundred times for com¬ 
mitting. But it had never occurred to him that Paul, the 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


119 


all-powerful Chief Minister, might also fall under that 
enmity that carried such loaded weapons. 

He knew nothing of Savola’s vast schemes and plans, or 
his bid for his brother’s co-operation, but he did know that 
Rivoli was no respecter of persons, and he was sick with a 
furious fear that Paul might be in case to learn as he had 
learned at heavy cost. 

He went through the now dark and silent streets with 
Romano beside him, swiftly and with set purpose. And he 
felt in his coat occasionally and fingered lovingly, not the last 
new marvellously small pistol which fired with such admir¬ 
able precision, but the long, keen Arenzano hunting knife. 

He went straight to a street of sombre faced houses which 
lay behind the Church of St. Augustine and stopped at an 
unpretentious door that appeared to belong to no particular 
house. 

“Your knife,” he whispered to Ramano. “The lock’s a 
trifle.” 

By sense of touch he inserted the broad blade in the lock 
and pried it open. It led into a narrow dark passage, down 
which the two men went: and to one, at least, it was not un¬ 
familiar. The passage sloped downward and made a right 
angle turn, so that in a minute they were passing under the 
street they had just crossed. 

Then came another door, open this time, and leading into 
a small room or vestibule, lighted by a lamp standing on a 
table, on which were writing materials and an open book. 

There were four doors to the room; the one by which 
they had entered; a corresponding one in the opposite wall; 
and two smaller doors side by side on their right. Raphael 
first went to the opposite door, opened it and looked out. It 
gave into a narrow passage. The Count took the key which 
was on the further side and locked this door. Then he 
turned to the smaller doors. 


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A key hung on the wall between them. He seized it, un¬ 
locked and flung open one of the doors and nearly fell over 
the unconscious form of his brother. 

VI 

Count Raphael wrote down the Prince’s account of what 
happened at his first encounter with the Council of Seven. 
It was found with a few papers which he gave to Cellino 
before his marriage. 

It was a cold account but a formidable indictment against 
the President, though it was not necessary to put it in as 
evidence in the great trial. 

The Prince had obeyed the summons, with the intention 
of plainly stating his mind as to the unpardonable interfer¬ 
ence in his private concerns. 

The crypt was better lighted this time, and he was too 
taken up with his indignation to feel any uneasiness. 

On entering the room he believed he had at last solved 
the Mystery of the Council of Seven. For seven men sat 
round the table, one of whom was Rivoli. On each side 
of him were three gowned and masked figures, sitting so 
immovable that, but for the gleam of their eyes, the Prince 
might have taken them for dummies. Each man’s hands 
were folded under the long sleeves of his gown and until 
the given moment arrived, not one of them spoke or moved. 

Impatiently angry at the “theatrical display,” the Prince 
advanced with a very perfunctory salute and was about to 
speak when the President stopped him. 

“You are summoned here, Prince d’Arenzano, to answer 
to the Council as to why you have not obeyed its orders 
concerning the reinstatement of the man Benis.” 

The Prince was nothing loath to answer. He appears to 
have made a very plain statement indeed, to the effect that 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


121 


he did not intend to reinstate the man or accept “orders” 
from the Council outside its legitimate sphere. 

He was assured in return that the Guild recognized no 
limitations of action, and that opposition to its ruling would 
end in the breaking of his power in the country. Also he 
was told that the Council desired to be lenient with him, 
and that nothing was required but his apology and conform¬ 
ity with the order! 

This to a man who from boyhood had hardly known what 
it was to have his word disobeyed, or his will thwarted! 

It may be presumed that the Prince answered with some 
heat. 

The alternative was apparently to accept punishment at 
the hands of the Council. 

“Or repudiate my connection with it altogether,” sug¬ 
gested the Prince. 

In return Rivoli took out a book and read, in his cold 
high voice, the three separate vows which the Prince had 
made to the Order. 

All this time the six silent figures never moved, nor ap¬ 
peared to listen. The affair might have been a duet between 
the Prince and the President. 

The Prince had to decide on some course of action in¬ 
stantly. 

He was convinced that Savola was the directing genius 
of this “farce,” as he still believed it, equally certain that 
they would not have carried it so far without adequate 
physical power at their command to prevent his turning his 
back on them, and leaving the precious Council to its own 
devices. Allowing that the disguised figures might drop 
their steely indifference and oppose him bodily, it would 
be a case of seven to one, and a futile indignity. Surrender 
to their will being equally impossible, there remained sub- 


122 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


mission to his vows, which he was not prepared to admit he 
had broken. 

He bowed ironically, and declared he would submit to 
whatever penalty the Council might choose to inflict, and 
wondered in his mind of what sum he was to be mulcted. 

Instantly the six figures were round him, though they did 
not touch him, and, Rivoli leading, they went out to the little 
hall or room where Raphael later on made his entrance. The 
Prince was requested to sign his name in the Penalty Book 
and was shown, as a curiosity, his brother’s signatures, oc¬ 
curring not once but many times. 

It must have taken all his self-control and iron will to 
submit to all this, and, considering his fierce temper, one 
can judge thereby the importance he attached to maintaining 
his own point, and getting out of the trap without loss of 
self-respect. 

One of the men unlocked a door and disclosed a small, 
utterly empty room, lighted by a lamp hanging on the wall 
just inside the door. The rest of the men stood each side 
of the entrance, and signed to him to enter. With a shrug 
of the shoulders, he complied. The door was pulled to, but 
as it shut an arm removed the lamp, and with the clang of 
its shutting Prince d’Arenzano found himself in absolute 
darkness. 

It would have meant little to some men, nothing to 
Raphael, whose experiences were of a different nature, but 
to the Prince it was a torture as insufferable as inexplicable. 

For what seemed to him quite a long period but was 
probably not many minutes he staved off his foe and, as a 
possible protection, made a bandage of his handkerchief and 
bound it tightly over his eyes to simulate a voluntary blind¬ 
ness. It was useless. The hereditary terror crept over him 
out of the blackness he could almost feel; fought its way, inch 
by inch, against reason into his brain, beat down the ramparts 


THE GUILD OF ST. AUGUSTINE 


123 


of fury behind which his mind sought refuge, was at last 
triumphant and waged its cruel will with him, until exhausted 
nature could bear no more and semi-unconsciousness fell on 
him. Lifted, and fell again, stroke upon stroke; the lifting 
more agonizing than death! So Count Raphael found him. 

“What made you come?” demanded the Prince, when 
they faced the matter next day, after sleep had in some degree 
restored him. 

“I know something about their little ways,” retorted 
Raphael grimly. 

“You aren’t a fool in the dark.” 

“I may be in the light, under certain conditions. The 
conditions suit the victim!” 

“You never told me.” He stopped pacing to and fro, and 
looked fixedly at his brother. 

Raphael flushed. “What use? I never dreamed they’d 
dare to touch you. You can’t suppress the Guild without 
enormous scandal, can you?” 

“I doubt if I could at all. Every one in my Council is 
a member.” 

“Well, don’t imagine they have done with you. Though,” 
he added drily, “if you know why they have their knife into 
you, perhaps you can force them to sheathe it; if you 
can’t-” He gave an expressive shrug. 

The Prince laid a letter on the table before his brother. 

“Read that,” he said quietly. “It was on my table this 
morning. Leonarde knows nothing of it.” 

The letter ran: 

“Enmity to the Guild will mean your political downfall. 
As it has been the ladder by which you have climbed so it 
can be the hammer under which you can be crushed. The 
offer once made is still open. For the immediate future, 
however, the question of the redistribution of the taxes 



124 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


depends on your discretion. Signed: The Head of the So¬ 
ciety of St. Augustine. ,, 

Paul leaned over his brother’s shoulder and put his finger 
on the word “Society.” 

“ 'Guild’ no longer, you see. What are we up against, 
Raphael?” 

“Something big. Can you accept their offer, whatever 
it is?” 

Paul smiled. 

“Succumb to force majeurf No! Not in any case,” he 
added. 

“You are positive?” 

“Positive. In a fair field I can hold my own.” 

“The field won’t be fair. Are you going for revenge, or 
the taxes ?” 

“The taxes,” said Paul gravely. “The rest can wait.” 


CHAPTER XII 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 

S UCH was the opening of the duel between the Guild of 
St. Augustine and Prince d’Arenzano. It is significant 
that he did not mention anything to his brother of his inter¬ 
view with Savola, and that though the outrage to his person 
must have rankled bitterly, his devotion to his self-appointed 
task was stronger than personal vanity. He regarded the 
episode as closed, and pursued his way as if it had not been. 

It was Count Raphael who determined to free his brother 
from the toils which he appreciated better than the other. 
He considered not only that the Prince's work was in 
jeopardy but also—what probably weighed far more heavily 
with the Count—his personal honor and safety. 

The indignity dealt to the Prince roused a passion in him 
that his own experiences had failed to do or, at least, which 
discretion had shackled. He was possessed with the idea 
that the Council would stop at nothing but the subjugation 
of the Prince’s honor, and the thought of it mastered his 
usually sane reason. He would have given his body ten 
times over to save his brother’s life, and in the depths of 
his complex nature he knew he would give his very soul to 
save the same for the Prince! 

125 


126 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Count Raphael knew nothing of Savola beyond the fact 
that he was the old “Commander” of the Order, whom he 
had seen in his first initiation. He did not connect him in 
any way with the government of the Guild, which he believed 
to be centered in Rivoli. 

As far as he was personally concerned, the affair of Maria 
Lais made it impossible for him to move against him on 
personal grounds. It was outside his private code of honor 
to do so! He had twice attempted to force Rivoli to a duel 
with the intention to give him opportunity to level the score 
between them—again according to his code! Rivoli, how¬ 
ever, made it abundantly clear he would not fight. 

Count Sylvestro had no reasons to love the Guild. Count 
Damien was indifferent to it, until Raphael’s story revealed 
it as a powerful organization bent on injuring one man, and 
that man his brother and the Head of his House! 

These three young men, having faced the situation, deter¬ 
mined that Rivoli was a danger to their Prince, and must be 
removed in accordance with their vows of fidelity to their 
brother. Accordingly, they formed a plan which was very 
nearly successful. All the particulars of it are found in the 
before mentioned papers which Count Raphael confided to 
Cellino on his marriage. 


II 

October 18th, 1831, was a languid autumnal day, when 
the heat of summer seemed to exude in tepid moisture from 
the earth and promote a sweating languor of body. 

Luigi Rivoli was travelling from Cardozza to Bores. His 
distaste for the country was not lessened by the discomforts 
of the day, and of the public conveyance by which he 
travelled. 

Five miles from Bores the coach was held up by a hither- 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


127 


to unsuspected band of bandits, who did the work of levying 
an enforced contribution on the passengers with speed and 
skill, betraying unusual clemency in their demands and dis¬ 
appearing as swiftly and inexplicably as they had come, plus 
a neat sum of money (which was unaccountably returned to 
the authorities a few week later) and one traveller, whose 
absence was not remarked till the coach lumbered into Bores 
itself. He had not booked a seat and it was concluded that 
in some way he was connected with the outrage. No one 
was greatly concerned over his fate. 

Luigi Rivoli, however, found it a matter of vast concern. 
He had been cleverly hustled into the centre of the group of 
bandits, suddenly shrouded in a thick cloak, and dragged 
across a horse in front of a man whose vice-like grip on him 
ensured him at least a safe seat! 

They rode long and fast before they halted. His wrists 
were now secured and the cloak still more firmly fastened 
about him. No heed was taken of his muffled attempts to 
speak. Again they rode for what must have appeared hours 
to him. Rivoli was stiff and sore, and a great deal shaken 
by the time his captors reached their destination. 

The last part of the journey had been up-hill and rough 
going, he judged. 

He was not a man to lose his nerve in any predicament, 
but he entertained no idea that his release would be a mere 
matter of ransom. His personal enemies were many and, 
though he could not conceive how they had known of this 
journey, his capture was proof positive that they did, and 
it only remained to learn who were the captors. 

He was going to Bores to see a man who had perfected 
a method of measuring the weakness and strength of the 
sensory nerves. About a month ago this man had written 
to him saying he had read a small brochure Rivoli had pub¬ 
lished on that subject, and he would like to submit his ex- 


128 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


periments to him but unfortunately he was an invalid and 
could not travel. Would it be possible that he could receive 
the honor of a visit? The man’s credentials were good, his 
account of his experiments interesting, and Rivoli decided to 

go- 

The uncomfortably muffled man had plenty of food for 
thought. Between times he listened intently for speech be¬ 
tween his captors. He could hear the hoofs of a second 
horse, but the riders never exchanged a word. The horse 
on which he sat must have been a powerful beast to sustain 
the double weight. He began to review the geographical 
position of Bores with regard to the residence of possible 
enemies. It lay to the north of Cardozza, on the road lead¬ 
ing to the mountain province of Orense, whose frontiers 
were, indeed, within twenty miles of the town. 

Orense! Rivoli knew now what he was up against and 
the knowledge did not increase his peace of mind! 

Therefore, when the journey ended and he was dragged 
from the saddle, hustled into some building and released 
from the cloak, he was not surprised to find Count Raphael 
d’Arenzano and his two younger brothers facing him. 

The building was a hut with an earth floor, an unglazed 
and at the back, a miscellaneous collection of rubbish— 
hurdles, iron traps, posts and sacks. In the middle was a 
table on which sat Count Raphael, tapping his boot thought¬ 
fully with a riding-whip. The younger men stood on each 
side of their prisoner. 

Behind them the door stood open, showing a wooded 
mountain side and through the stems of the trees one caught a 
glimpse of bigger mountains across a rocky desolate gorge. 
The warm sun filtered through the pines, and their scent 
filled the air, which was invigorating and pure after the over¬ 
ripe moisture of the lowlands. 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


129 


Rivoli looked round expectantly. Prince d’Arenzano was 
not there. 

Suddenly Count Raphael lifted his head, as if he had only 
at that moment perceived his prisoner, and he swept his 
hat off with an ironical bow. 

“Your pardon, sir. Cardozza is so crowded a place that 
it is difficult to find opportunity for private discussion, so 
we have taken this method of securing the same.” 

“.Whatever is the purpose of this outrage, Count, I can 
assure you I would have offered you ample opportunities for 
private conversation without it 1” 

Count Raphael’s eyes brightened. Good! The man was 
going to show fight after all! 

“We have never got very far on such occasions as you 
have provided,” he said drily; “and indeed there is little to 
say now, but more to do. My brothers, Count Sylvestro 
and Count Damien, and your humble servant, desire to con¬ 
vince you of our disapproval of your treatment of Prince 
d’Arenzano, who has not only the honor to enjoy the confi¬ 
dence of his country but is the Head of our family. You 
will notice, sir, that we do not bring into question any item 
concerning your dealings with us as individuals.” 

“I appreciate your forbearance! Let me point out to you 
in my turn that you offer no proof that the present situa¬ 
tion is not entirely the outcome of personal pique!” 

“No proof—but our word,” drawled Raphael indifferent¬ 
ly. “It is really a small matter tp us, so we are satisfied 
ourselves.” 

Rivoli spun round on Count Damien. 

“Your vows are most recent, and it is generally considered 
your standard of personal honor is high. It would interest 
me to know how you reconcile your vows or honor with 
this situation?” 

“You tried to injure a man who had done nothing what- 


130 


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ever to deserve it,” explained Damien fiercely; “and that 
man is my brother. I vowed personal obedience to an Order 
which demanded of me a decent personal life, not a system 
which tortures men into doing its will!” 

“And in the name of the Order to which you vowed obedi¬ 
ence, I command you to assist me, a defenceless man, against 
unequal odds!” 

Damien shook his head. “You are not the President now. 
You are just Luigi Rivoli, who tried to injure my brother. 
The odds will be more equal presently, I hope.” 

“You lack the support of the famous Council,” put in 
Raphael suavely. “Of those six unknown mummers who 
sit by you and carry out your will so neatly. What a fool 
you were, Rivoli, to let me discover that! I swear one of 
them is an English prize-fighter. He has the trick of that 
knock-out blow which is peculiarly English. What do you 
pay him?” 

The insolent nonchalance of his voice goaded Rivoli to 
madness. It was all he could do to keep from flinging him¬ 
self, bound as he was, on that hated form seated there on 
the table, mocking him with some diabolical plan lurking in 
his accursed head. 

He turned to the others again—to Sylvestro in particular. 

“You talk of my injuring your brother, because I car¬ 
ried out certain orders given me by a higher authority. I 
repeat —given me. Do you know the injury this man here 
has done me? The infamy he has committed? When you 
do, you can judge between us. Count Sylvestro, you are a 
married man now. If you respect your wife you 
would-” 

Count Raphael’s voice cut like a thin steel blade across 
the hot torrent of his words. 

“Surely, sir, you will not drag a lady’s name into the 
business ? You cannot be so ignorant of the usages of decent 



A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


131 


society as not to know in a little dispute like ours any pre¬ 
text takes the place of a woman’s name!” 

“The pretext of an injured brother,” sneered Rivoli. 

“No!” returned Raphael steadily. “Our private quarrel 
is between us alone. It has no part in this affair. I have 
given you opportunities without number to settle it, which 
you have refused.” 

“Refused to be assassinated by a man who has already 
destroyed my happiness! Yes!” 

“You are really quite proficient with the sword, sir,” was 
the cold response. “I do not assassinate people.” 

Sylvestro spoke. 

“Let’s get on, we are wasting time.” 

He was not in the least anxious to hear of Rivoli’s per¬ 
sonal grievance with his brother. He had no illusions about 
Raphael. 

“Quite right, Baby, we waste time. Well then, sir. We 
three constitute ourselves champions of the head of our 
family; indeed by our oath of allegiance we are bound to do 
so. We consider you have unwarrantably inflicted suffering 
on Prince d’Arenzano.” 

Quick as lightning Rivoli got in a stroke. 

“Five hours in a quite clean dry room—in the dark!” 

“And therefore,” pursued Raphael, as if he had not 
spoken, though his eye narrowed and hardened, “we propose 
you should meet us one after another in open fight. If you 
come out of it alive, we shall not be in a condition to grudge 
you your victory, and will ensure you means of escape and 
complete immunity.” 

“In plain words, having decided to murder me, you want 
to get some amusement out of it first.” 

“I really do not mind how you put it,” returned Raphael, 
indifferently; “so long as it comes off.” 

“It won’t come off so far as your amusement is con- 


132 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


cerned,” Rivoli said sharply. “You can kill me as I stand, 
a bound man—three to one—but I should be a fool to lend 
you any assistance.” 

“Upon my word, I don’t know that it would not be the 
least trouble in the end.” 

Damien started forward. “Raphael! No! He has to 
fight. That was my condition.” 

“All right. Don’t get excited. He’ll fight,” put in Syl- 
vestro, soothingly. 

“He will not fight; not with that damned scoundrel stand¬ 
ing there!” said Rivoli. 

“Then let’s leave Raphael out of it,” cried Damien quickly. 
“If he’s really got a personal grudge against him, it’s more 
decent.” 

“Viper!” murmured Raphael, with a little smile. “I 
meant to have first turn.” 

“I am better than Sylvestro anyhow and it isn’t fair to 
match us when he’s tired.” 

“What sort of chance do you leave me?” grumbled Syl¬ 
vestro. “Anyhow I think you are right about Raphael.” 

“Baby, what ingratitude!” mocked Raphael, whose half- 
veiled eyes never left their victim’s face. 

“Well, it is more decent,” insisted Sylvestro. 

Raphael laughed. 

“Dear Baby! More decent! What is decent in this 
world?” 

“Very little,” put in Rivoli quietly. “Especially where 
Count Raphael’s footsteps pass. I am sorry, gentlemen, to 
disappoint your hopes. I decline to fight, and you must in¬ 
stead decide amongst yourselves who shall be the murderer, 
since you draw so nice a distinction.” 

Raphael got off the table in a leisurely fashion. 

“It’s a question of time then. I feared as much!” He 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


133 


pushed the table aside. Behind it was a post some five feet 
high, deeply imbedded in the ground. 

“He needs time to consider the matter. Damien, you are 
a good hand at knots. Bring him along.” 

Rivoli was securely fastened to the post with ropes well- 
knotted, so as to secure him beyond hope of freedom and yet 
not to injure his circulation. 

“I daresay you’ll see another side to the question to¬ 
morrow,” remarked Sylvestro; “but it would be much more 
sensible to come to terms now.” 

“Terms!” He was sick at heart, but he forced a cour¬ 
ageous face to his foes. 

“You know you really have a fine reputation with the 
foils,” Damien insisted, reprovingly. “I should have thought 
your life worth fighting for. We’ll make Raphael promise to 
let you go free if you beat us.” 

“He would give his word, I suppose!” scoffed Rivoli. 
“You young fools! I tell you I shall not fight. I tell you 
something else: if you kill me you have not done with the 
Guild of St. Augustine, very far from it.” 

“The famous Seven!” sneered Raphael. 

“All this because Prince d‘Arenzano does not like the 
dark!” 

It was madness to make that taunt. All three faces grew 
black and threatening. They never spoke between them¬ 
selves of this queer weakness of their brother, but it was 
for them a sacred tradition bound up with the memory of 
their mother and no subject for profane lips. 

Neither of the three, knowing something of the man’s 
power and vindictive spirit, would set him free now to wreak 
his vengeance on the one they would protect. Raphael with 
great difficulty had forced himself to tell them of the terrible 
hours after Prince d’Arenzano’s imprisonment in the crypt, 
and how he firmly believed that such another experience 


134 


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would injure Paul’s finely adjusted brain. He, Raphael, had 
forced himself to speak of it, and they, knowing their 
Raphael, had learned more by that significant fact than by 
his actual words. They were fighting to preserve not only 
their brother’s honor but his reason, not only his bare life 
but his very soul. If one seeks excuse where by all usages 
of modern civilization there are none, it lies here—that such 
was their honest aim and actual belief. 

Rivoli had gauged rightly: neither of the two younger 
men would kill him in cold blood, but he did not appreciate 
the ends to which they would go to force a sword into his 
hands. 

They left him there bound in the hut. They warned him 
that shouts were of no service, owing to the remoteness of 
his prison. 

The door had a mere light latch. Raphael, who was the 
last to leave, examined it. 

“I doubt if that would keep a wolf out; one that knew its 
own mind,” he remarked thoughtfully as if to himself. The 
others had gone on. “I know there are one or two in these 
parts. We ought to have thought of that before. But per¬ 
haps they won’t find you. It would upset our plans if they 
did.” 

He smiled as he spoke, looking at Rivoli with that 
venomous side-glance that many men had feared. 

The hate between them was evenly balanced. The remorse 
which Raphael still felt for his crime against Maria Lais 
died down to ashes in the presence of Rivoli, and in some 
twisted odd way he was sick with anger that it should be so. 
Some horrible secret knowledge of relationship of soul, or 
community of mind, which understood the dark workings of 
his enemy formed a link between them. If Raphael mis¬ 
trusted Rivoli’s dealings with Paul, it was largely because 
of this hateful knowledge of Rivoli’s nature. 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


135 


That little touch concerning the wolves was in Rivoli’s 
own spirit and he expected him to recognize it as such, but 
Rivoli did not. He cursed him long and silently, as silence 
and solitude slipped down the mountain side and imprisoned 
his mind, as the hut and ropes imprisoned his body. 

Ill 

It was no use. He could not think or plan or construct 
any means to liberate even his mind from the thraldom of 
solitude and fear! 

The day slid into dusk, dusk rushed into night. He fell 
to hoping that Prince d’Arenzano had felt some of the tor¬ 
ture he endured, when he had left him free and unbound in 
his cell! He would be wiser next time. 

Not to move when the darkness all round one moved! 
That was a sensation he had never properly imagined. Out¬ 
side in the forest there were noises which seemed to increase 
the silence. Little shuffling sounds, breaking twigs, the cry 
of owls, and then—distant but unmistakable—another cry. 
He held his breath and counted. It came again a little 
nearer, and a stealthy footfall on the pine-needles. 

Cold sweat broke out on his face. He could not breathe. 
He would gladly have held his breath in death at that 
moment. Then the cry came again right under the window. 
He felt the stilling of his heart. 

The door shook—and Raphael entered. 

He was still tied but lying on the ground, and damp with 
water, when he recovered himself. Water was also being 
held to his parched lips and he drank greedily. A guttering 
candle in a lantern revealed the door open against a pro¬ 
found blackness without. It w T as profound for a moment, 
then he discerned a star twinkling over the trees. His senses 


136 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


returned entirely; he recognized Count Raphael bending over 
him with a look of supreme satisfaction. 

“After all, my friend, the dark isn’t very pleasant?” he 
remarked, standing up and shaking himself. “That’s enough 
water, you mustn’t spoil your appet'te for the excellent meal 
you will have, when you brace youi self up for a fight! Am 
I not an angel in disguise? I remembered we had left you 
no water, and travelled all this way to bring it to you!” 

“The door’s open.” He forced out the words with an 
effort. 

“Yes, I thought it more airy—Oh, wolves!” he laughed. 
“So you believed me? I am quite a professional, am I not? 
Listen!” 

He gave out again the unspeakably dreadful cry of a 
hunting wolf. Rivoli shivered from head to foot, and im¬ 
pulsively tried to rise. 

Again Raphael laughed with vicious content. 

“There are no wolves here outside the barrier. I was only 
giving you a little excitement.” 

If the eyes that glared at him could have thrust unutter¬ 
able torture on his soul, he would have been in hell. 

Maria Lais, the capture, the taunts, all he had endured at 
this man’s hands, were nothing beside the supreme injury of 
ghastly, torturing, unnecessary fear! 

Presently he was alone again. 

IV 

There was a little clearing in the forest not far from the 
hut, forming a kind of shelf on the mountain-side, and here 
Rivoli found himself and his three jailers in the fresh morn¬ 
ing air, with the sun pleasantly warming his chilled limbs. 
He was free now. He recognized that his chance of escape 
was nil in these mountain fastnesses, which were familiar 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


137 


ground to his enemy and an unsolvable riddle to himself. 
He sat on a rock, haggard-eyed, dishevelled but self-pos¬ 
sessed. 

The agony of the night was gone except for its irascible 
memory. 

On the ground before him lay two or three swords; beau¬ 
tiful weapons of finely tempered steel, one of which was at 
his disposal. He folded his arms and leaned back and 
watched his enemies. 

He still refused utterly to fight. He pointed out to them 
that starvation only increased the measure of their crime. 

Three fighters to one starving man! 

He had reiterated the absurd odds, with one eye on 
Damien, who fidgetted under it. Sylvestro, on the other 
hand, argued with him on the folly of not taking the best of 
the odds and the unsportsmanlike spirit he was showing. 
Raphael said nothing, but whenever Rivoli shifted his eyes, 
he encountered the mocking, insolent stare of the other— 
never wavering, never changing. He knew in his heart that 
whatever he might do against those other two, Count Raphael 
did not mean to leave him on the mountain-side alive. 

Rivoli indeed saw the impossibility of it from the Count’s 
point of view. He was merely playing, minute for minute, 
buoyed up with some irrational hope that somehow in the 
end he might foil the purpose of the man he hated. It was 
that which he cared for, beyond the mere saving of his own 
life. He was no coward save in that one dark hour of un¬ 
necessary fear, and he would have met either one of these 
men with a decent show of spirit, but he could not have 
done himself even the shadow of justice with those eyes 
watching and waiting, confident in their deadly purpose; so 
he met taunt with taunt, and scorn with scorn, and unrea¬ 
sonable hope lived on. 

Suddenly, without warning, Raphael rose and stood over 


138 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


him, and in his hand there was the keen hunting knife of 
his race. 

“See,” he said quietly; “I have no objection at all to kill¬ 
ing you as you sit there, though my brothers have. You’ve 
abused your position; you’re a danger to society, and you’ve 
injured the Prince—reasons enough. But since you are 
afraid of steel, I’ll do this. We’ll get two pistols and load 
one; you shall have first choice and we’ll fire together. If 
Fortune favors you, you shall go free. They”—with a nod 
at his brothers—“shall swear it to me, on condition that you 
also swear that the matter shall end here, and that you leave 
my brothers alone in future.” 

“And suppose I am merely wounded?” scoffed Rivoli. 

Count Raphael shook his head. 

“If Fortune gives me the loaded pistol, you won’t be 
wounded. I can promise you that.” 

There was a rustling sound in the woods behind them, the 
slithering of a horse on the pine-needles, and a big form 
hurled itself in their midst. The hunting knife was wrested 
from the Count’s hand. 

Rivoli got to his feet and subsided again. 

The other three stood stupefied a moment, staring at the 
Prince, who—panting and shaking—looked from one to the 
other, with fierce hard eyes. 

“Are you my brothers or a band of cut-throats?” he de¬ 
manded sternly, but his voice was dry and choking. 

“It was to be a fight, a fair fight!” said Damien swiftly, 
a challenging light in his eyes. “He had only to choose his 
sword.” 

“He would have fought in time,” said Sylvestro. “I 
would to God, Paul, you had stayed away one hour longer, 
for now none of us will go safely any more!” 

The Prince’s eyes turned to Raphael, who replaced his 
knife in his pocket and then spoke with sharp decision: 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


139 


“You cannot interfere, Paul. It is our affair. We shall 
not murder the man; but Sylvestro is right. If we let him 
go now, our three lives won’t be worth a day’s purchase. 
I’ve offered him new terms. I think he meant to take them.” 

“He will not take them,” said the Prince quietly. 

“Paul, you have no right here, and you have no right to 
set him free! The others came into it because I made them. 
You dare not risk it!” 

He flung himself suddenly between the Prince and Rivoli. 

“For Heaven’s sake, think what you are doing, Paul!” 

“Stand aside, Raphael, and let the man go.” 

“I will not!” 

“It is a Command!” 

The words rang out sharply like the clear report of a 
pistol. For a moment Raphael hesitated, his hand fell and 
then stiffened again; he held his ground: 

“I refuse to take it, Paul!” 

With one swift movement the Prince caught him by the 
arms and held him. His enormous strength might have 
been tried to the uttermost, for the Count’s muscles were 
like fine steel, but he made no struggle. He bent his head, 
with bitter anger in his heart. 

“Sir,” said the Prince, addressing Rivoli; “you are free. 
There by the hut is my horse. Ride to the top of the hill 
and you will see a pile of stones to the right and a track. If 
you follow it, you will come to Maila. It is eight miles off. 
The coach passes there. Leave the horse at the inn.” 

He loosed his hold on Raphael, who turned sharply away, 
and stood staring down the precipitous hillside. 

The Prince went on. “You should be in Cardozza to¬ 
night. My brothers will return to Arenzano with me. If 
you are wise the matter will end here. The Society,” he laid 
a faint accent on the word, “is not in a very healthy condition. 


140 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Take care a strange physician does not have to be called in. 
See him started, Damien.” 

Rivoli walked by them without a word, but at the edge of 
the clearing he looked back at them all four, each watching 
him silently and without movement. He might have been 
printing an indelible picture of each on his mind. He looked 
longest at the Prince, but there was no gratitude in his eyes. 
Behind his mask-like face, they felt the register of the last 
twenty-four hours was entered for payment in indelible ink! 

Then he went towards the hut, and Damien followed him. 

V 

The four were alone again on the little level plateau; 
the sun still warmed it and the pines incensed it, and the voice 
of the forest was like a lullaby, but none of these things 
touched the consciousness of the four—Sylvestro, seated on 
a rock, philosophical but disappointed; Damien, grave but 
relieved; Raphael, sullen and brooding, standing there over 
the steep declivity; the Prince listened till the last faint sounds 
of the horse’s movements ceased. 

Presently he spoke. His voice was steady and firm, and 
full of reproach. But it was reproach levelled at the be¬ 
loved, and he spoke in the old patois and in the old form of 
speech which left them silent and submissive. 

“What is this thing you have done, oh, sons of the House! 
To waylay an enemy and snare him to his death is the way 
of brigands, not of the Princes d’Arenzano! Now you have 
made of him an implacable enemy, for he is a man without 
grace, a man of the Shades.” 

“He was dangerous before.” 

The interruption was from Raphael, spoken half under 
his breath. The Prince turned to him. 

“Yes, but not as now. Yet, thank God and the saints 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


141 


that I was in time to save your honor from so black a mark; 
better a hundred foes than that our name should be coupled 
with brigands!” 

Damien spoke, his beautiful face burning under the quiet 
accusation. 

“It was meant to be a fight. He can fight. I’ve seen him 
in the salle d’armes. We could not know he was a coward.” 

The Prince shook his head. 

“No coward, Damien, but he has too clever wits for you.” 

Sylvestro spoke. 

“He had a good sporting chance which he never allowed 
to others; he is a triple dyed brute.” 

“Granted, but I would not have my brothers learn from 
his code. Oh, I know,” he went on passionately and with 
deep feeling, “I know it was for my sake you did this. I 
understand. You have stood much yourselves. You only 
found the unbearable point reached when it was—another!” 

“No— you!” said Sylvestro stoutly. 

Paul put his hand on his shoulder. 

“I know, Baby; I recognize it. I thank you all!” His 
eyes strayed to Raphael, still immovable, and with his back 
to them. “But I must stand or fall by my own weakness. 
God forbid it should prove a curse to other of the House 
than myself! But I shall not fall. I hope to sever my con¬ 
nection with the Guild.” 

Raphael laughed—just a little scornful laugh. The first 
evidence that he had heard what had passed. 

It was Damien who spoke. 

“Will that be permitted ?” 

The Prince hesitated. If only he could tell them of Savola 
and Savola’s offer! But his word was given. His personal 
word which counted more than many vows. If he had 
spoken and taken on him that slight dishonor, would the 
sacrifice have pushed back into the shadow of the unrealized 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


the Fate which was now to engulf them? That Fate, shaped 
first by the deed of the man who had just laughed, and who 
would have sold his honor easily to save his brother’s bare 
life! 

The Prince permitted himself to say: 

“I think I can get freedom for us all. It depends whether 
we pay the price, or the country.” 

“If the country?” 

Raphael questioned but did not turn. 

The Prince’s face was graver still. 

“The country must not pay. Our bills are our own! I 
will not jeopardize a single item of my programme. To show 
weakness now is to fail. But a time will come when I can 
afford even to fail! Come back with me now. We stay at 
Arenzano the night, and return to Cardozza to-morrow.” 

“How did you know?” questioned Sylvestro, suddenly. 

Again the Prince paused. 

“I had information sent me. Rivoli is not the beginning 
and end of the Guild of St. Augustine, you know.” 

The two younger men were startled. 

Raphael said with a sneer: 

“The Council of Seven again?” 

“No, the Head of the Order. Have you all forgotten 
Savola ? 

Raphael wheeled round: 

“What! That old scarecrow?” 

“He is the Head of the Order.” He spoke drily and 
significantly. 

Sylvestro whistled, and picked up the swords lying on the 
open sun-dried patch. The sun had been turning them into 
white arrows of brilliance that dazzled the eyes. 

“That settles it,” remarked Sylvestro. “It seems to me 
we were after the wrong man.” 


A PERILOUS DEFENCE 


143 


VI 

Three days later Prince d’i\renzano entered the big library 
in the Orense Palace, which was the general sittingroom of 
the three brothers. Its sole occupant was Count Raphael. 
He looked up as his brother entered and glanced at the 
clock. It was one a. m. 

“I could not send you word/’ said the Prince. They had 
had an engagement. “I have news which-” He paused. 

“Bad news, I suppose!” 

“I think so. Savola is dead!” 

The two looked at each other. 

“And Luigi Rivoli reigns in his stead?” 

“I suppose so.” 

He began walking to and fro. Raphael watched him curi¬ 
ously. 

“You cannot get free now?” 

“No.” 

“I take it you had a hold of some kind over Savola?” 

“Simply that he required me for his plans, and I had an 
impression that he liked me.” 

“And Rivoli does not!” 

“I scarcely imagine it. In one way it’s a relief. Savola 
was a man of vast ambitions. Even if Rivoli inherits them, 
he does not inherit the capacity for carrying them out. 
Savola was a danger to Europe, Rivoli is a possible danger 
to Romanzia.” 

Raphael smiled languidly. 

“Why not crush the Society?” 

His brother came to a standstill and looked at him. 

“I have considered that. It would be like attacking a 
hornet’s nest. It contains as many friends as enemies. In¬ 
ternecine warfare at this point is damnable. I think, on the 



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whole, that Rivoli will have the sense to keep quiet. I shall 
leave him alone. After all, I gave the man his life.” 

4 Raphael got up and stretched his long limbs. 

“Yes, exactly what I was thinking. Pd rather stand in 
my own shoes than yours. Good-night.” 

At the door he paused, and looked back. His eyes were 
sombre. 

“I regret, Paul, I deeply regret you made Rivoli a present 
of his life. It was too generous!” 

Savola was given a magnificent funeral, which was at¬ 
tended by every member of the Guild who could be present, 
the d’Arenzanos amongst them. 

The outer economies of the Guild appeared unchanged, but 
as months stole on Prince d’Arenzano’s prophecy appeared 
justified. He and his family were left in peace. The politi¬ 
cal horizon again cleared, and, little by little, the Prince 
regained his sense of security. 

It was a false security. The hate in Rivoli’s heart was 
unassuaged, and his lust for revenge quickened in silence. 
His was the cunning of patience, the cold, calculating hate 
that could bide its time. 

He was free now. Heir to his uncle’s schemes if not to 
his ambitions, and with the ears, eyes, and hands of his 
secret organization at his service. 

This Secret Service which Rivoli inaugurated was prob¬ 
ably the finest on earth. 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 

T N the south of Romanzia lies the Province of Alquarto, 
leaning out towards the sea in languorous embrace— 
beautiful with the beauty of the south, with gently rounded 
contours, wooded slopes, still lakes and peaceful valleys. In¬ 
habited by an ignorant people, whose simplicity was twisted 
with a very innocent guile, and who were almost childlike in 
their dependence on their Duke for all that pertained to them 
of good or evil. 

There was no Duke, however, in 1832. Duke Ferdinand 
had died in 1828, and his beautiful daughter Adrienne 
reigned in his stead, Duchess in her own right; a gracious 
dispenser of bounty to her simple people when it struck her 
to be so. 

She lived at Alquarto itself in a fairy palace on Lake Lav- 
elli, which some past ruler of her house had built. A palace 
of soaring towers and airy balconies, of stately terraces and 
graceful colonnades, of gardens famed through Europe—a 
very gracious residence of a most gracious Lady. 

She seldom left it. Cardozza held no attractions for her. 
She visited Torenza, the capital of her province, from time to 
time, but mostly she preferred being mistress in her own 

145 


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home, very much mistress of every mood, whim, and desire. 
It was perhaps fortunate that her whims were of sufficiently 
decorous a pattern to excite no comment in a censorious 
world. She was well chaperoned and companioned by a 
certain Mme. Ortez, for whom she entertained a mild, if 
sincere, affection. 

The two led a harmless existence in a charming routine 
of small duties and pleasures, which took on themselves a 
magnified importance for lack of comparison. The Duchess, 
following the traditions of her family, patronized the Arts, 
cultivated her mind to an unusual extent, and occasionally 
entertained a rising poet or painter, and gave her emotional 
nature outlet in spasmodic outbursts of charity, or in a pass¬ 
ing devotion to religious observances, or to dreams of which 
she spoke to no one. 

The Count and Countess Monterael, who had known her 
from childhood, lived in Torenza, which was distant some 
fifteen miles from A1 quarto. The excellent Countess 
troubled much over the young Duchess. She did not ap¬ 
prove of the companionship of poets and musicians and also 
she did not approve of her wasting her youth in spinsterhood. 

In the early winter of 1832 she induced the Duchess to 
pay her a visit at the Villa Monterael, on the outskirts of 
Torenza, where at her husband’s desire she was preparing 
to entertain some distinguished guests. 

II 

The Duchess maintained a long correspondence with her 
one intimate friend, a Madame Adele Honore DeLille, in the 
voluminous fashion of her day. This correspondence, with¬ 
out doubt, afforded just sufficient outlet for her emotional 
nature to enable the young Duchess to present to the world 
in general a highly decorous and restrained personality. One 


THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 


147 


doubts very much if even Mme. Ortez was aware of all the 
fluctuations in her Duchess’s mental processes, for she seems 
to have had some facility in concealing her various moods 
under a “a mask of right divine.” Since no one offered op¬ 
posing moods, her own became but a gracious procession 
that called for little comment, and she was in essence a joy- 
loving soul, and a worshipper of beauty almost to the verge 
of paganism. The friendship between her and Madame 
DeLille was very real, very loyal, and very valuable. 

The first letter of immediate interest to us was written 
on the first evening of her arrival at the Monteraels. The 
recipient apparently lived in Tours, and was a young widow, 
which is practically all we know about her. 

“Beloved Friend, 

“Here I am in strange surroundings which engender lone¬ 
liness of spirit, so I turn instantly to you to relieve my isola¬ 
tion. I am dressed and ready to descend when such descent 
can no longer be avoided; though to you I may confess I 
am seized with confusion at the idea of facing so great a 
company of people, distinguished, alas! in matters so far re¬ 
moved from my knowledge and tastes. What know I of 
politics and diplomatic relations? In truth, my dear Adele, 
I begin to fear I am mistaken in coming. At Alquarto at 
least I live in the shadow of Romance, but my few excur¬ 
sions into the outside world have not brought me into touch 
with the reality. Apart from that, the political activity of 
my host and hostess rather alarms me. You know how thor¬ 
oughly I share my dear father’s views that it is derogatory 
for any of the Romanzian Nobility to meddle with politics. 
I cannot understand these people who have flung away the 
traditions of their fathers and descended into the common 
arena to fight for what is theirs by right divine. The Chief 
Minister himself is here, I understand. How my father used 


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to sigh over the spectacle of a d’Arenzano descending to such 
practices! You will scold me, I know, in your kind way— 
it is, I think, the only point on which we do not see eye for 
eye. 

“January 23. 

“I hasten to finish the epistle begun last night and inter¬ 
rupted by the summons to descend. What a joy to have 
some one to whom I can confide my impressions, and thus 
clarify my own views! I believe that fear of disappointment 
and boredom had made me more diffident than usual. My 
knees actually shook, when I entered a room which seemed 
full of people all talking busily; and then some one saw me 
and at once, it seemed to poor me, all the rest turned and 
looked at me, except my hostess, who was far away with her 
back to me. I could not but consider that they showed a lack 
of good manners. The babel of tongues ceased and I stood 
paralyzed by the silence, and on the verge of seeking shelter 
behind Madame Ortez’s ample person. Luckily, I was saved 
from disgrace by a tall young man who called the Countess’s 
attention to me. My rescuer was immediately introduced 
and proved to be no less than Prince d’Arenzano himself. 
With him was his brother Count Raphael. 

“My romantic chronicles, dear A dele, have not lied to me 
in one respect. These two men in appearance fulfill all the 
expectations in which one can indulge. However, it is only 
too likely that their charming appearance and manners, and 
the high intelligence of their conversation, will prove only 
a more becoming mask than usual to that cynical spirit I 
find on every hand and which, as you know, so chills my de¬ 
sire for intercourse with others. How my father would 
have rejoiced at the opportunity of voicing his indignation 
to this young man that he should have dimmed his untarn¬ 
ished name in the mire of politics! Yet I confess there 
seemed little dimness about him.” 


THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 


149 


Apparently further intercourse with the new world satis¬ 
fied the young Duchess that it was warmly alive and open 
to enthusiasm and generous belief, and that her ideas and 
fancies, if she chose to voice them, were received neither with 
contempt nor ridicule. One can imagine her impulsive na¬ 
ture opening as a rose in the warmth of the sun. Her hostess 
seems to have been greatly pleased with her success; one 
suspects an ulterior motive in the invitation. The Countess 
frankly lamented the young Duchess’s unwedded state. 

But Adrienne herself was at first totally innocent of any 
such designs. She continues to record her impressions of 
life and especially of the two young men; and from the care¬ 
ful, wary questions in her friend’s letters, we may presume 
that the latter realized more clearly than the Duchess that 
there were possibilities ahead. 

It is quite impossible, even after the closest examination 
of the correspondence, to discover which of the two men the 
Duchess at the outset preferred. 

She writes one day: 

“I am lost in admiration of the Prince d’Arenzano’s wide 
outlook. He said to me to-day with passionate fervor, Tf 
I could make the women of Romanzia listen to me, half my 
work would be done.’ ” 

Further on she says: 

“You must not imagine the Prince to be always serious. 
He is between times delightfully witty and amusing, and 
quite young. He has a sense of humor which is sometimes 
beyond me. He can, I find, afford to laugh at himself. We 
danced last night and he flung himself into the enjoyment of 
the evening as if no such thing as the serious matter of 
government entered his head. And when we had finished 
one figure, he said to me quite abruptly: ‘Do be very nice to 
the French Ambassador, Duchess, I want him kept in a good 
humor till I’ve done with him!’ I think he saw my surprise 


150 


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for he laughed and apologized, saying: 'Life was all such a 
big game we had not time to distinguish between business 
and pleasure.’ I asked him if he really knew which was 
which, and he said quite quickly: 'Yes, it is real pleasure 
to convert an antagonist into a friend—it is business to con¬ 
vert a diplomatic friend into an ally.’ 

"Before I thought what I was saying, I said: 'But I am 
not an antagonist, Prince!’ Was it not dreadful, Adele? 
Why should I have assumed he was alluding to me? He 
then took me to task for objecting in my heart to his work. 
I was forced to defend myself and in the end he demolished 
all my theories. I am wondering what arguments my father 
would have found to defeat his logic.” 

Her remarks on Count Raphael betray an equal sense of 
attraction. His understanding, his wit, and that amazing 
charm that was still his when he cared to exercise it, would 
have ensnared a far less susceptible heart than the Duchess 
Adrienne’s. Moreover, he at least appeared to treat her 
seriously. 

She writes: 

“Count Raphael strikes me as more interested in the 
feminine outlook and, I think, appreciates better than his 
brother the value of beauty in life. People speak strangely 
of him behind his back, even the Countess seems inclined to 
listen to foolish tales; but I am not so ignorant as not to 
K know that men are beset with many temptations of which we 
know little, and from which, perhaps, we alone can protect 
them, if their nature requires assurance of higher things.” 

Again, in answer apparently to some inquiry, she writes: 

“I hardly know how to answer you. In the Prince’s com¬ 
pany I forget myself—I feel myself, as it were, submerged 
in a larger personality; while the Count on the contrary 
makes me tremendously aware of myself in every aspect. 

“The Prince has been absent for two days in Cardozza, 


THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 


151 


but returned last night. During that time I saw very little 
of the Count.” 

Probably at this stage, in what was evidently a double 
courtship, Count Raphael was honestly playing the game, 
and taking no advantage that could not be fairly shared with 
his brother. One can imagine the interest and under-current 
of excitement in the Villa Monterael for the possibilities 
must have been apparent to all. 

Then fate intervened and hastened—or maybe hindered— 
events by a catastrophy and Adele in Tours must have had 
some anxious days, for the next letter she received was 
dated February 9th, quite a long interval at that period of 
their correspondence; and it was headed ‘Alquarto/ 

“My beloved friend, 

“I can hardly credit the assurance of my mirror that the 
last few days have not added years to my appearance. Here 
I am in my own house with Prince d’Arenzano ill in bed 
and Count Raphael and his man in attendance. Poor 
Madame Ortez is distracted at the situation. 

“It was on the morning of January 9th. that a message 
came to me saying that there had been a mining disaster at 
Sarnie; an immense fall had occurred and some eight or 
nine men were entombed. I resolved to return home at once, 
not in hope of doing any good but as a mark of respect to 
the families of the unfortunate men. Prince d’Arenzano 
was with me when the message arrived and such was the 
whirlwind of his helpfulness and his certainty of my course 
of action that within half an hour I found myself starting 
off to Sarnie in a carriage, without luggage, without Juliette, 
without Madame Ortez, all of whom I had apparently 
ordered to follow me. Count Monterael drove with me and 
the Prince and his brother, who both insisted on coming, 
rode on either side. When we arrived at the tragic scene at 


152 


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the pit head, I began to wonder what possible good I could 
do there. 

“Count Monterael and I stood among the crowd of weep¬ 
ing, wailing women and wild looking men, unable to do more 
than assure them that all that could be done should be done. 
The poor things seemed to think I had some magical power, 
for they crowded round and tried to kiss my dress—it is 
now unusable! I would like to have gone home but I could 
hardly leave my escort in such an unpleasant position, and 
they were discussing the possibilities of a rescue party. I 
tried to convince them that it is always considered impossible 
to rescue men after an explosion and a big fall. I told them 
what my father always said on such sad occasions, ‘There is 
nothing to be done but bow to the inscrutable decrees of 
Providence!’ Count Raphael laughed and said, ‘I think I 
will risk the decree and presume to impose a human provi¬ 
dence ! Those men have to be got out if they are alive!’ 

“I still protested and he turned his back on me. The 
Prince said that I must allow them to be responsible for their 
own actions. 

“I had just to sit there in the miserable squalor and dirt 
and wait. After what seemed an age the cage came up with 
eight men, none of whom were seriously hurt, but neither 
the Prince nor Count Raphael were with them. They said 
a fresh fall had occurred just as they thought they were in 
safety and they had rushed on and had not noticed that the 
noble gentlemen were not with them. 

“No entreaties would induce them to go down again. Not 
even my most solemn commands! Dr. Croce spoke of the 
decrees of Providence but it sounded very unconvincing now. 
I could not believe that heaven meant those two splendid 
brothers to perish. At last just as I had made a last storming 
protest—yes, Adele, I stormed at them—the bell clanged and 
the cage was hurriedly loosened. Dr. Croce went down in 


THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 


153 


it. It seemed another dreadful age before it reappeared with 
the three of them. The Count, his face covered with blood 
and grime, was supporting his brother, who semed to be 
horribly hurt and moaning with pain. But when he saw me 
he tried to smile and wave his hand. I turned sick and 
faint and sank on a heap of coals and hid my face. Pres¬ 
ently Count Monterael persuaded me to go home and the 
manager’s wife went with me, since I had neither maid nor 
Madame Ortez. He told me that the Prince’s thigh was 
broken. I left word that the Prince and his brother were to 
be brought to Alquarto as soon as they could be moved and 
that they were to consider everything as their own. How 
splendid they are! 

“No, my beloved Adele, books of Romance have not lied 
to me. It is lovely to know it! 

“This morning they brought the Prince here with the 
great surgeon that Dr. Croce summoned from Torenza. I 
took care to be out of the way when they arrived, indeed, to 
be frank with you, I locked myself in and hid my face in 
the sofa cushions, and tried not to imagine what he must 
endure in being moved. Ah, if only you were by my side! 

“It is strange to think I have never hitherto been faced 
with any emergency more pressing than the misconduct of 
a servant or the failure of my dressmaker. I should not 
like to contemplate a return to such a monotonous existence.” 

The Duchess need have had no apprenhension. For the 
next few years her life was more eventful than she desired 
and Romance inundated her soul till out of disastrous 
tragedy she found her way again into peaceful ways of a 
more placid existence. 

The Prince lay helpless for a few weeks with a broken 
leg. It necessitated much coming and going of couriers and 
secretaries, and occasionally important Ministers, for after 
the first few days he was able to see to business, and it was 


154 


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no time for him to disappear from the political arena. Noth¬ 
ing but his dread of an imperfect mend kept him in bed, but 
with that alternative prospect before him he accepted the 
situation, commandeered his brother’s services and continued, 
from the placid shore of Lake Lavelli, to rule Romanzia. 
He wrote grateful little notes to the Duchess, but was less 
troubled than was Raphael at the change he effected in her 
quiet household. What secretly did trouble him a good deal 
more was the fact that his brother had a great deal too much 
time to spend in the Duchess’s company. 

For Prince Paul d’Arenzano had at last fallen in love. He 
had suspected it at Torenza; at Alquarto, even though de¬ 
barred the sight of its lovely owner, he knew it beyond mis¬ 
take. He neither analyzed her charms, nor reasoned over his 
state. He was in love; so soon as he could be moved he would 
leave her house, return to Arenzano, make certain arrange¬ 
ments, and then ask for her hand. Until he was well, and 
freed from the obligation under which he lay, his lips were 
sealed. 

He never spoke of his intentions to Raphael directly, but 
he believed his brother understood and it was not from seri¬ 
ous jealousy that he endeavored to employ as much of 
Raphael’s free time as possible, but from the old hidden mis¬ 
trust of his brother in the company of any woman. 

If he had trusted Raphael a little more it would have been 
better for all. Perhaps the Count, though he was quite 
aware of Paul’s admiration for the Duchess, did not take it 
as a serious passion. Perhaps he did not wish to do so, for 
undoubtedly the Duchess’s personality appealed to him very 
strongly. Her beauty intoxicated him. There was some¬ 
thing exotic and rare about it, and before many days had 
passed he was deeply involved in his passion. Yet he may 
have made desperate attempts to be loyal to his brother; one 
does not know, for he left no record. There are only the 


THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 


155 


letters of the Duchess and one or two little notes from the 
Prince to outline for us that dawning spring by the shore 
of Lake Lavelli. 

The Duchess’s letters: 

“February 27th. 

“My dearest Adele, 

“See, I beseech you, that you can so control circumstances 
that I may receive you here before this amazing experience 
is over. 

“The anemones are in full flower. I took Count Raphael 
to see them as they grow there under the olive trees; they 
are ever a joy to me! Sheets and sheets of red against the 
young green grass. There was a little wind but not enough 
to strike chill and we sat on my favorite seat, and he told 
me a good deal about himself. 

“Did I mention to you the letters I have had from the 
Count and Countess Monterael, all so angry because I will 
not give up my own house entirely to the d’Arenzanos and 
go to stay with them till my guests can move. A discourt¬ 
esy which is unthinkable to me. I am perfectly happy and 
well able to entertain my guests and take care of myself. 

“I received a sweet note from the Prince yesterday, in 
return for some flowers I sent in to him. I should show it 
you if you were with me, so I send you a copy. Does he not 
write deliciously? 

“ ‘Dear and honored Hostess, 

“ ‘You would attempt to reconcile me for the deprivation 
of your company with a pretty reminder of it. I am happy 
in the assurance that your kindly thoughts pay me little visits 
full of healing. Let me apologize many times for the arrival 
of a courier so late last night. If your rest was disturbed, 
consider it as an enforced service to your country, and not 


156 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


the wish of your unfortunate servant, who must bend even 
the convenience of his friends to the requirements of the 
Government. 

“ ‘My sincere hopes of a prosperous day to you! 

“ ‘Paul Landuoc d’Arenzano.’ 

“February 29th. I saw the Prince to-day. We took coffee 
in his room. I cannot describe to you the sense of security 
which he gives to me. When I am with him I forget I am 
the Duchess, I feel but a girl—no, a woman,—who is made to 
be protected. 

“He is looking better than I expected but still rather white 
and thin. He is allowed a pillow now and owned he was 
thankful for it. Next week he is to sit up and perhaps the 
week after he will be able to use his leg and perhaps be able 
to travel, and then they will go. 

“I wrote thus far, and fell to thinking what it will be like 
when they are gone. I beseech you, come to me before that 
event happens.” 

“March 16th. 

“My beloved, 

“Fate has been cruel to detain you. 

. “The great adventure has happened and you not here to 
support me! I must write to you with all haste that you may 
share my happiness. I am still bewildered and lost before its 
greatness, even though at present it is a secret between me— 
and you (I requested that)—and Raphael! 

“Can I set it down? It is not memory that will fail me, 
for surely Time will never dull the memory of that hour. 

“We were on the lowest terrace by the lake, and he asked 
me to walk out into the wood at the end and see the narcissus 
coming up under the olives. We were neither inclined to 


THE DUCHESS OF ALQUARTO 157 

talk much. He had just told me they would be leaving on 
Friday. 

“Then as we stood looking at the narcissus just showing, 
he suddenly spoke. No, I cannot put it down though it is 
all written on my heart, each word a golden ladder leading 
me into Heaven. But just at first I hesitated. A little 
breeze sprang up and ruffled the surface of the lake, and 
the narcissus tossed this way and that. Yes, I saw all that, 
I was alive to all the world. He just waited silently, and I 
was thinking that if I took the golden, heavenly thing he 
offered me, there would be sudden winds and even storms to 
face; that his tempestuous nature, which I knew all along 
lay under his easy manner, would need care and a harbor¬ 
age—that Alquarto and I meant that for him, as he had said. 

“They were tempestuous words he had uttered, not careful, 
clever phrases. He needed me! 

“It takes a long time to write but it flashed on me like 
that, as I looked at the ruffled lake and the dancing nar¬ 
cissus—and then I looked at him and—it was done! He said 
nothing else but only kissed me there among the narcissus 
on the borders of the lake! 

“Later he said that he had had no business to speak so 
soon while they were my guests, that his brother would never 
forgive him, and he asked me if I would agree to keep it 
to ourselves till they left, and then he would tell his brother 
his intentions, and write and be correctly formal, so that the 
Count and Countess Monterael could have nothing to say 
against him. So he knows what they do say! 

“I got scarlet at the thought, but he said quite humbly that 
they were right and he wasn’t fit to lace my shoe, but he would 
be; only they should have nothing to bring against him in 
the first hours of his happiness. I was quite glad to agree, 
but I made the exception of you . He demurred a little but I 
stood sponsor for your good faith and he gave in. For the 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


rest I am glad of our secret. I want these few days to our¬ 
selves. 

“It distresses me to deceive the Prince but Raphael says it 
would distress him far more to start our engagement with the 
Prince in anger at his behavior. ‘It is bad, my dear beloved/ 
he owned sadly; ‘in truth I did not mean to speak yet, but 
the sky, the lake, the narcissus, and you , were too much for 
me. Be kind and let me tell Paul my own way/ 

“Of course I agreed. 

“I will finish this to-morrow. Greatly as I long to share 
my news with you I am still reluctant to part from it. Can 
you explain so unreasonable a state of mind, my friend? 

“Raphael has gone to Cardozza and will come back to 
fetch the Prince on Friday with a special carriage. He need 
not have gone but the pretence is too hard for us—for me, 
at least. I cannot look at him without betraying myself! 
Do not think poorly of me; joy is harder to hide than grief. 
This afternoon I sat with the Prince. I am sure he will not 
be angry when he knows. He is so good and gentle and it 
will be lovely to have him as a big brother—the brother I 

have always dreamed of.My dear friend, how 

wonderful is life. You were right after all; it contains all 
the treasures hearts can desire!” 

Three days later: 

“My dearest Friend, 

“They have gone! I cannot write of it. There is no sun 
in the sky nor color in the lake, and Alquarto is empty with 
a great emptiness that makes my heart ache. Only the 
knowledge of the letters that will come warm the loneliness 
of life. Tell me, is it always so when Love takes possession ? 
Must I look forward to such bleak anguish with every 
separation ?” 



CHAPTER XIV 

RAPHAEL*S MARRIAGE 

npHE Prince went to Arenzano to finish his convalescence 
and Raphael accompanied him. No doubt because his 
brother’s presence gave him stabs of remorse, Raphael cul¬ 
tivated it the more, for it is fairly clear that he realized he 
had not “played fair” in the matter of the Duchess of Al- 
quarto. He wrote to her telling her he was on the point of 
speaking to the Prince and the next letter should be the 
formal request for her hand—'her dear hand, while her heart 
was his already and he could not and would not let it go.’ 

Count Sylvestro and Count Raphael sat in the big hall one 
evening. They had been shooting and were pleasantly weary 
with long tramping, and disinclined to seek out the rest of 
the household. But one of the household—and that its lord 
in person—sought them out. The Prince came with letters 
in his hand. He walked slowly still to avoid limping. He 
had been silent and preoccupied all day. Now he stood star¬ 
ing at the fire a moment and gazing into its blazing heart 
with a fierce abstraction. Both brothers stopped talking and 
looked at him curiously. 

Presently he looked round. Sylvestro was struck by some¬ 
thing new in his face, or rather—as he put it in his idiomatic 
159 


160 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


manner to his wife: “I never thought before what a con¬ 
founded beautiful face Fortune’s gone and stuck on him!” 

“Pm sending a special courier to Cardozza—and Alquarto 
—to-night,” he said quietly. “Do you want to make use of 
him, either of you?” 

Raphael got up abruptly. Sylvestro noticed he was very 
white, and that he spoke with an effort. 

“Yes, I should have something to send by him—and I 
have something to tell you first, Paul. Perhaps I should 
have said it before.” 

The two looked at each other; Sylvestro was aware of 
strain and stress, and an indescribable fear. 

Raphael seemed to wait for a question but none came; Paul 
just looked at him with knitted brows—perplexed. 

“Before we left Alquarto—I—the Duchess, Adrienne, 
promised to be my wife!” 

In all his life Raphael had hardly found speech more 
difficult. Words seemed but to express a poverty of soul 
that threatened bankruptcy. 

And still the Prince looked at him, and he would not permit 
his own gaze to fall. 

“You asked her while we were still there, her enforced 
guests ?” 

“Yes.” 

“And she accepted you.” It was not a question, it was a 
statement of stupefying fact. 

“She did me that honor-” 

“I might have guessed-” said Paul slowly. “You 

were free and with her —but—I loved her.” 

He turned slowly and dropped the letter he still held into 
the fire. 

Then he stood upright again and faced Raphael, and it 
was not the same face that Sylvestro had half consciously 
admired a minute ago. 




RAPHAEL’S MARRIAGE 


161 


His eyes burned as with sudden fever and his voice, as he 
spoke, was changed. A force and passion had held both men 
who listened dumb. Sylvestro indeed could have prayed to 
be invisible although neither of the other two was conscious 
of his presence. 

“Listen. I myself am hardly fit to take her hand but you, 
Raphael, are not fit to touch her shoe! I think I could have 
won her; I know I should have made her happy—but you— 
forestalled me! Then, remember, I lay this great trust on 
your shoulders—make her happy. If you fail her—if you 
cause her one hour of repentance that she gave her fine life 
into your keeping, then I swear, Raphael, by the memory of 
our mother and by my hope of salvation, that I will kill you; 
you shall be to me the enemy for whom is no forgiveness!” 

And Raphael, white-lipped, stood before his brother and 
answered slowly: 

“May I be outcast and disgraced if I fail her—but you 
cannot kill me, Paul—for I am your brother.” 

The Prince bent his head. 

“I have spoken it,” he said quietly. 

Then he went slowly across the hall with heavy steps, like 
a man carrying sorrow for a burden, and he looked back at 
his brother once before he went out. Presently Sylvestro 
knew Raphael was speaking. 

“It is a damnable business, Baby,” he said, in an odd thick 
voice. “I’ve behaved like myself—but I can’t give her up, 
even to him. Baby, I didn’t know, I swear it, that it was like 
that with him.” 

It was so unlike Raphael to make excuse or seek sympathy 
that Sylvestro was convinced, at least, of the sincerity of his 
love for the Duchess. Loyal as he was to Paul, he felt dimly 
aware that the other brother’s soul was entangled in the 
affair, and that more was involved to him than a mere passing 
passion for a beautiful woman. 


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He murmured he supposed it had to happen, but it was all 
cursed bad luck; and presently Raphael went away. Count 
Sylvestro confided the matter to his wife, and it is from her 
rather confused record of the affair, with what was known 
later, that one can in some small way reconstruct the scene. 

The Prince had gone the next morning, no one knew 
where. He left a note for Sylvestro with certain orders, 
and said he would come back as soon as he had got hold of 
himself. They were not to worry about him. In spite of 
the season he may have gone into some mountain region, for 
his furs and his gun went with him. No one knew, no one 
ever ventured to ask him, but somewhere in solitude the man 
with the big heart faced and fought out his bitter battle of 
renunciation. 

Although nearly twenty-nine he had never fallen in love 
before, at least, never to the extent of facing marriage. He 
could have brought the woman he adored a virgin affection. 
He knew he could have won her, given time, and he had to 
see her pass into the keeping of a man he knew as unworthy 
and unreliable. 

Heaven knows how fierce must have been the struggle, the 
temptation to set his powerful will against his brother’s mar¬ 
riage; to make it, at the least, a cause of abrupt rupture 
between Raphael and himself, but he was too generous for 
that. 

Ten days later he reappeared at Arenzano: quietly cheerful, 
outwardly matter-of-fact, ready to face all the innumerable 
preludes to such a marriage. The possible junction of two 
such vast estates as Arenzano and Alquarto was not to be 
entertained. Raphael, in marrying the Duchess, renounced 
his claims as heir-presumptive to his brother, for himself and 
his heirs forever. The Prince was nobly generous in the 
sum he settled on him; but even greater was the generous 
reception he gave to the Duchess herself, so that the latter 


RAPHAEL’S MARRIAGE 


163 


speaks of her great and additional happiness in obtaining a 
brother as well as a husband! 

To clinch all the Prince was his brother’s supporter at the 
actual ceremony, and since Raphael was taken up with his 
new and amazing passion there was no one with eyes keen 
enough to discern what measure of pain lay behind this gen¬ 
erous dealing. 

The following letter turned up long afterwards among a 
bundle of papers relating to other affairs, which is doubtless 
how it escaped destruction. It is undated and unheaded as 
to locality. 

“Dear Paul, 

“I obeyed your orders and sent in my resignation as 
Master of the Horse. As I expected, it was refused, and 
on my insisting, I was asked to retain the place in name only 
for a short time to avoid the otherwise unavoidable selec¬ 
tion of an unacceptable candidate—you can guess who! I 
could hardly refuse; I think it wisest to leave it so. My 
duties are at end, that’s understood. If the unavoidable 
candidate can be induced to leave Cardozza, my place can be 
safely advertised ‘To let.’ 

“I am, 

“Your very ‘obedient’ brother, 
“Raphael.” 

The marriage was celebrated in the cathedral of Torenza 
and was a particularly magnificent affir. The young Duchess 
and her husband returned almost at once to Alquarto and 
there we must leave them for the present to learn much 
from each other and, on the woman’s side at least, to find 
experience both excelled and fell below the gentle imaginings 
of her youthful days. 


CHAPTER XV 

FIRE AND SMOKE 

I 

A FTER Savola’s death, Rivoli found himself heir to 
plans and intentions which he treated with scorn. 
They were beyond his grasp, and it angered him to know 
it. It angered him still more to know that Savola was right 
and that they would not have been beyond the grasp of the 
hated Prince d’Arenzano. His sombre jealousy flared again 
to sullen flame. He might owe the Prince his life, he might 
in the future regard the debt as “Life for life,^ but the hate 
remained; he had no gratitude in his soul and no appreciation 
of the bigger man. But for those others, that had brought 
him to the gates of death, had stripped bare his soul, 
humiliated him and tortured him—with them he meant to 
settle accounts. There was no room in Romanzia for Luigi 
Rivoli and the House of d’Arenzano. 

The marriage of his arch-enemy had been at first gall to 
him, but as the weeks went by he ceased to regret it; he 
would even have welcomed new happiness and new honors, 
for the higher his enemy climbed, the greater, the more 
disastrous the fall that would come! He laid his plans. 
He invoked the goddess of Chance and he waited! 

164 


FIRE AND SMOKE 


165 


II 

The spring is apt to cause a restlessness in the blood and 
a desire for expansion that need not always be on the side 
of affection whatever the poets tell us! 

The spring of 1833 fonnd Count Raphael at a loose end. 
Adrienne’s expected motherhood interfered with a pro¬ 
jected trip to Algiers and Cardozza was also out of the 
question for her, though not necessarily out of the question 
for him. 

It was Adrienne herself who told him so, half laughing, 
half pitifully, one evening when the restless fit was visibly 
master of him. 

‘‘You need not stay here just to keep me company,” she 
said with a bigger unselfishness than he could guess. “Adele 
DeLille will be charmed to pay us a visit. I have not seen her 
for three years, and she is my greatest friend. Go to 
Cardozza, Raphael. Paul will be glad to have you; perhaps 
you can persuade him to return with you for a visit. He’s 
never stayed here yet!” 

But Raphael hesitated. Adrienne’s letters make it quite 
clear that he did not jump at the offer of freedom; it was 
only after some days of intermittent discussion that he 
decided to go. 

One has to insist on this, because the too general reading 
of the tragedy is that the Count failed his wife at the most 
critical time, deserted her for the pleasures of the capital 
and his old ways of living with heartless infidelity. There 
is not a shadow of justification for this opinion; all evidence 
points the other way—that Raphael himself was reluctant 
to go, oppressed by some vague fear for her and of himself, 
and only yielded because he thought he served her better so 
and felt his own restlessness inimical to her well-being. 

Prince d’Arenzano was at the time at the zenith of his 


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first period of power. He had accomplished much in reform 
and he appeared to be resting on his oars; but he was only 
gathering strength for still greater measures. 

Sylvestro and his wife were at Arenzano, practically 
ruling there in the Prince’s stead, but doubtless under his 
direction. 

Damien had become a full-fledged officer and was taking 
his profession seriously. 

Max, at Arenzano, was happy under the Countess 
Eunice’s charge, growing up with a worshipful adoration 
of his big brothers, a protective love for his kindly sister- 
in-law, and a conviction that the world was a very pleasant 
place when one is eleven years old and of the House of 
Arenzano, and with Arenzano to live in. 

There was no special place for Raphael in the immediate 
family circle. He paid a flying visit to Arenzano with Paul, 
but returned to assist at some public function and to pay 
his delayed respects at Court. 

Because his respects were delayed, he was called upon to 
excuse himself with some show of pronounced friendliness. 

The Queen took advantage of his return to remind him 
that the post of Master of the Horse was still his. She had 
never formally accepted his resignation, nor had she 
appointed anyone else, though the unacceptable candidate 
had gone. Would the Count at least do her the grace to 
overlook the Royal Stables—her side of them—during his 
sojourn in Cardozza? One can hear her low, lazy voice 
flinging the command to him as a request, probably when the 
King’s attention was withdrawn. Quite possibly, he 
hesitated, and the languid-lidded eyes would narrow; quite 
certainly a clever taunt would decide the matter. 

He accepted the charge. 

King Frederick might have been less pleased at the 
Count’s advent than the Queen; Count Raphael paid his 


FIRE AND SMOKE 


167 


ceremonious respects at His Majesty's Levee and there is 
nothing official to show that he paid more than his respects 
at Her Majesty’s receptions, but gossip has more to show, 
and more than one courtly correspondent of the time speak 
of the Count’s reappearance as contemporary with a revival 
of surprising events and more daring arrangements than had 
ruled the Court of late. 

There were alterations going on at Brantzia, Their 
Majesties’ summer residence; amongst other things, new 
stables were being built. It was certainly only to be expected 
that the late Master of the Horse should go down and 
inspect them—and by no means unexpected in some 
quarters that Her Majesty should pay a flying visit there too, 
quite an informal affair, with not more than three ladies and, 
say, five gentlemen in attendance. 

It was not expected, however, by the Court or public that 
a fire should break out in Brantzia, the second night of the 
visit, which destroyed a good half of that very beautiful 
residence. 

The fire was extinguished; no lives were lost. The 
Queen’s apartments were sadly damaged but not destroyed. 
De Parva and Lemora and some others wandered through 
the blackened corridors, assessing the damage and discours¬ 
ing on the probable cause. They paused on the threshold 
of Her Majesty’s room. Her Majesty was now safely 
housed in the King’s apartments. 

It had suffered as much from water and smoke as from 
fire. The beautiful appointments were broken, stained and 
torn. The blackened window made a melancholy frame to 
the cold dawn. 

“A costly business,” said de Parva, as they stood on the 
threshold. He crossed the room; Lemora, following him, 
stooped and picked up a handkerchief and examined it in the 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


dim light. It was of the finest linen with a cipher and 
coronet worked on it. He went across to the window. 

“Hangings, carpet, bedding, all ruined,” continued de 
Parva, who had an appreciation of expense. 

“Yes, a costly business,” Lemora echoed his words 
thoughfully, and the dawn found an odd light in his eyes. 

“Is this yours?” He held out the handkerchief. 

The elder man shook his head after a necessary glance. 

“No, why do you ask?” 

“I found it on the floor there.” He indicated the spot. 

The two were silent. De Parva held out his hand; 
hesitatingly Lemora gave him the handkerchief and laughed. 

“R. M. A.!” he said lightly. “Let’s see, how long has 
he been married?” 

De Parva turned a sickly white. His hand shook a little. 

“We’ve no right,” he began and stopped. 

The two looked at one another and then away out of the 
window. 

The dawn crept up, chillier and chillier. The earth, 
shrinking back from its austerity, regretted the comfortable 
curtains of the night. 

Of the two men there, one of them hated the man whose 
initials were embroidered on the fine cambric, with all the 
spiteful hate of a mean nature, which had been prompted by 
a cold contempt; and the other man was a coward, and a 
man, moreover, incapable of keeping a secret, even in his 
own interests. The handkerchief could not have fallen into 
worse hands. 

They went out again from the blackened, scarred building. 
The dawn melted into a grey sullen day, with a bank of 
clouds in the north-west. The two shivered and drew 
their cloaks closer. At the eastern entrance a little group 
of people awaited the arrival of the coaches and carriages, 
which were to convey the Royal Household to the Duke di 


FIRE AND SMOKE 


169 


Florence, who had put his house at the disposal of Her 
Majesty. 

Count Raphael returned to Cardozza immediately. He 
merely waited to see Her Majesty into her carriage. 

“I will leave full directions as to the stable alteration,” 
were his final words to the Queen. A lady-in-waiting 
affirmed afterwards that his voice was deadly cold, almost 
hostile. “And I think my successor will have no difficulties 
whatever in taking up my duties.” 

The Queen answered also coolly. So averred the same 
lady. 

“They have not been very onerous of late. I see no 
reason for delay—none.” 

It is little to build on. If it holds a clue at all it seems to 
point at an estrangement rather than a reconciliaion—the 
fact of the Count’s immediate departure for Cardozza seems 
to confirm this idea; but from when the estrangement dated 
—if it existed—is left in darkness. 

The story ran its evil subterranean course. Count 
Raphael naturally heard nothing of it. Then on a sudden 
town and country were flooded with unstamped news sheets, 
bearing the tale in merciless uncompromising detail. The 
page scorned initials, scorned decency, scorned, in places, the 
truth; but there it was for every eye to read, every evil mind 
to gloat over—printer, distributor, undiscoverable! 

Conceive the outrageous publicity of it, or rather conceive 
nothing of it. Take it as one must, as a tragic terrible event, 
a revenge diabolically planned, and remorselessly carried 
out. If one must think of it, imagine the mind of the man 
who sat and waited for his moment, with his tools ready— 
a master fencer—waiting the assured slip in his adversary’s 
guard, waiting, ready, and hate-hungry in his heart! 

The leaves fluttered through Romanzia to Alquarto itself, 
reaching there indeed three hours before the capital was 


170 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


deluged;—no doubt but the master mind arranged for that! 
A courier flew from Alquarto to Cardozza, carrying a note 
piteous in its simplicity: 

“Raphael, come to me, and let me with my own eyes know 
they have slandered our love! Adrienne.” 

He received it only two hours after the news sheet had 
been put in his hand. 

He neither went nor wrote. Whether he considered the 
case too hopeless or whether he knew that no lie would 
clear him in the eyes of his brother, whatever it might do in 
the eyes of his wife, we do not know. Probably blind fury 
with himself swallowed up all other sensation and the one 
sentence that echoed in his ears was, “If you ever fail her— 
then I will kill you and you shall be to me the enemy for 
whom there is no forgiveness!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


WHAT HAPPENED ON AN APBIL MOKNING 

I 

N ONE had dared speak to the Prince. They knew the 
moment his foot crossed the threshold that he had 
heard and seen. 

Count Sylvestro and Carfax were in the library; the 
former there to meet Carfax whom Fate had landed as a 
visitor at Cardozza for a brief holiday, at this momentous 
crisis. Sylvestro had gone out when he heard the Prince’s 
carriage drive up, had seen him go straight up the wide 
steps to his own room, had essayed to follow, and found his 
courage fail him; so he returned to Carfax. 

One or two of the poisonous leaflets lay on the table. 
They both looked at them involuntarily, and Sylvestro 
suddenly caught up one of the most scurrilous and thrust it 
into the fire, treading it down with his heel, and then, leaning 
against the high mantelpiece, hid his face in his arms. 

Carfax got up, walked restlessly to and fro, and finally 
stopped by him. 

“You must not give in, Sylvestro,” he said, huskily. 
“You will be needed.” 

At that moment the door opened, and Raphael came in. 

171 


172 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Raphael, with his head high and a mocking smile on his 
lips, but with a look in his eyes that quenched even their 
fierce anger. 

“Well?” he demanded, with a hard little laugh. “Have 
you not had time to make up your minds what you would 
like to say to me ? I see you have done some reading!” 

He indicated the papers on the table. 

“Raphael, for God’s sake—” began Sylvestro, terror 
clutching his heart. 

Raphael took a step forward with clenched hands. 

“Where is he? Where’s Paul?” he demanded. He 
ignored Carfax completely. 

“You can’t see him, Raphael. Go—go at once! I’ll come 
to you.” Then he sprang forward and caught his brother 
by the arm as he turned to the door. 

“No, Raphael, you shall not find him.” 

“Let go, you fool! Do you think I am afraid of him.” 

He tried to shake off Sylvestro’s grasp. 

“You are, if you are not mad!” 

With a sudden wrench Raphael flung the other back, the 
door slammed and he was gone. 

The two men left stood listening, almost paralyzed with 
fear. 

Had he really gone? 

Sylvestro rushed suddenly to the door. 

“He’s gone to Paul! Heaven help us all!” he cried, and 
tore out across the great hall to the Prince’s room. 

The door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Sylvestro 
flung it open. 

Raphael was against the opposite wall, pinned there by his 
brother’s strong hands at which his own slim white ones, for 
all their steely strength, plucked helplessly. He was panting 
strangely, gazing into Paul’s eyes, sure that if his gaze 
shifted those awful hands would slip their grasp to his 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


173 


throat; and all the time Paul was speaking—a rapid, low 
torrent of words, terrible, meaningless, mad! 

“I warned you, Raphael—it is the dust of Hell. We are 
choking in it, you and I, and there is no water to lay it! No 
water, Raphael! Do you hear? It’s death that's thirsty 
for you—as I am!” Mere disconnected raving. 

They, Sylvestro and Carfax, caught his arms but his 
strength was beyond them. Seeing them, however, he 
turned with a kind of snarl, and from some blank genesis 
there sprang to Carfax's mind the words: 

“The Wolf of Arenzano!'' 

He cursed them both and made as if he would strike 
Sylvestro and so loosed his grip on the prisoner. 

Raphael slipped under the swinging arm, free, and stood 
still gasping, and holding the back of a chair, with the room 
swinging round him in mad gyrations. 

But with the cessation of actual contact with his brother 
Paul’s madness relaxed, leaving him, less mad, but tempest- 
tossed in his own desolate wrath. It was at Sylvestro he 
hurled these fragments of his passion. 

“Damn you! How dare you interfere? Don’t you know 
what he has done? He and his—(He flung an evil word 
at the Queen.) He’s pulled us down to the very slime of 
Hell—black, black dishonor! And I swore if he caused her 
a heartache I would kill him! Do you think he is to be 
allowed to live, that mocking devil, who hounds her to 
death and comes here to boast of it?” 

“Go, go, Raphael!” groaned Sylvestro. But Raphael did 
not move. 

“No, by the Name of God, he shall pay, here and now!” 

Sudden fury wrenched him back to face Raphael. 

“Oh, I'll be more than just! He shall fight! Get me 
swords, Sylvestro! Quick! It’s a command!” 

But Sylvestro flung himself between the two!” 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Paul, you don’t know what you’re saying. You can't 
fight Raphael! Oh, take him away, some one!” he cried in 
anguish. 

Carfax was powerless and again Paul thrust him aside. 

“Can’t fight? Why not?” he cried. “It’s you who are 
mad, Sylvestro, to think that white-faced coward is Raphael! 
Look!” 

He swung his arm and struck Raphael across the face, 
and the blow broke the paralysis of mind and body. 
Raphael staggered and looked round, as if he only then 
realized where he was. And he turned to Paul. 

“I can’t fight you, Paul, and you know it. I am not going 
to let you kill me!” 

His voice was harsh and cracked. He who had known no 
fear, had been in extremity of fear and was still holding it 
at arm’s length, and measuring the distance between himself 
and the door, and then some one—he knew later it was 
Carfax—came between him and that colossal figure of 
wrath, and he saw the door was open. 

He went out, groping blindly; and as he went, he heard 
or seemed to hear, (for the words could not have actually 
reached him), Sylvestro talking swiftly and quietly, 
entreatingly. 

“Paul, stop! You are out of control! You shall look at 
me, Paul. No, there is no one else there—Paul, sit down!” 

It struck Raphael vaguely that he had not thought 
Sylvestro had so much command in him. 

He found himself halfway down the long corridor, and 
Carfax was saying at his elbow, in a hurried insistent voice: 

“Where are you going, Raphael? You must tell me.” 

He stopped and stared at him blankly. 

“I—I don’t know—yet.” 

“Promise me to do nothing more mad—more disastrous— 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


175 


God knows it’s awful enough, but he must have time to get 
control. Promise me, Raphael!” 

Raphael laughed. 

“I’m not quite so mad as Paul,” he said queerly. 
“Probably Pll go to Arenzano!” 

He passed out into the night before Carfax could stop 
him. Carfax went back heavy-footed to the Prince’s room. 
The door was shut now. He waited. It appeared hours 
before it opened and Sylvestro came out. He closed it 
behind him and stood swaying a little, and leant against the 
wall. He did not see Carfax till the latter put his arm 
round him and said: 

“Come along in here, Baby. You’ve got to hold out!” 

Pie half led and half pushed him into the secretary’s 
room, which was next to the Prince’s. It was, of course, 
empty at this hour, and he thrust Sylvestro into a chair. 
He went and found some brandy and administered it, stand¬ 
ing over him while he gulped it down.. Sylvestro lay back, 
staring in front of him with a look of utter exhaustion on his 
face. It was a long time before he spoke. 

“He’s moderately sane now—sane enough to order me to 
leave him. He did not ask where—” He choked a little— 
“where Raphael had gone. Where is he? No, do not tell 
me. It’s safer not to know!” 

“I don’t know,” put in Carfax dryly. 

“My God! What’s going to happen to us all?” cried 
Sylvestro suddenly. “I see no way out! Oh, the devil's 
own hands shuffled the cards when those two fell in love 
with the same woman!” 

He got up and walked up and down like an agitated but 
sane Paul. 

“I can’t see the way out, Carfax, publicly or privately. 
All that seems to matter is to keep them apart till he’s sane! 
Raphael will kill himself—I can’t see what else he can do, 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


or what can prevent it. If he doesn't he can’t escape Paul. 
He still means to fight.” 

He shivered. 

“Isn’t it ghastly, Carfax, Paul who’s never fought in his 
life, except as a game!” 

“He can’t fight him,” returned Carfax, roughly. 

But Sylvestro made no answer. 

II 

Through the long hours of the night the Prince sat at his 
table staring before him. Time raced with his pulses, sank 
to inertia with his exhaustion, unrecognized, and then— 
challenged. 

In this fallen flaming world there must be some fixed 
point of reality beside that white face, which loomed up 
before every spot where a man whose brain was on fire 
might hope to find a resting-place and some coolness—no 
dust. 

He gave it up at last, that hunt for a resting-place and 
instead let his fever run its course of hate. Dishonor, dis¬ 
grace, the downfall of his work! Yes, all that, but behind 
it, rising and fading, blotting out even that one evil vision, 
was a picture of Adrienne, frozen with grief, sick to death 
with the mortal blow dealt her tender young soul, and he 
able to do nothing to heal her! It was agony such as he had 
not conceived could be borne with life. 

His impotence to help was such torture. Nothing for him 
to do but exact vengeance! He must sate his soul with that 
or die! It was the only panacea for the intolerable pain. To 
escape it he presently rose, walking up and down, cursing 
Raphael. 

He could almost believe he was by his side in the dark 
night, walking strange ghostly streets, walking at his elbow 
listening to another voice that whispered evil counsel in the 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


177 


traitor’s ear. Evil, because it meant escape from him— 
from his righteous vengeance, from the only thing that could 
assuage the burning pain. 

He wanted air and, tearing back the curtains, flung open 
a window, and looked into the black night. 

Eastward! Arenzano was eastward. The purpose of 
that evil counsel sprang to his brain with a flash. 

Raphael would go there! Not to Arenzano itself, even 
he would hardly dare so much, but above the forest there 
were mountain heights where a man might so easily perish 
from a false step. His ears held a faint echo of some such 
talk long ago when the world was not flecked with red 
patches and white faces. 

Eastward the dawn was breaking. 

Ill 

There were no red patches or white faces in Raphael’s 
visions, only interminable blackness, void and shapeless. 

He found himself at last walking through strange 
deserted streets and unknown suburbs, making his way 
mechanically from one dim lamp to another, but otherwise 
purposeless. He had no idea of the time but was just 
conscious of overwhelming fatigue and, finding a little 
empty space with a seat before a low building, that 
appeared to be an inn, he sat down. The swinging lamp that 
burned before the door of the building seemed a companion 
in the lonely darkness. 

The April night was cold, and overhead flying clouds hid 
the stars. A clock in the distance struck one! He must 
have been walking nearly three hours. It was time to think 
consecutively. 

There was something he had to do though it was so 
difficult to call it to mind. He did not think of Adrienne at 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


all. Perhaps it was not possible for even the thought of her 
to reach him in the depths where he was. 

He must find out what it was he had to do. 

He had to face the plain facts, as ugly as wounds, and 
needing as great care. 

At last he knew. He had to prevent Paul killing him. 
Also no one must be able to point to his dead body and say 
he feared to face the storm he had raised. No, they should 
not gape at him, neither should Paul refuse him burial with 
his fathers! 

Up in the heights of the mountains above Arenzano there 
were crevasses, deep slits in the earth’s sides where, if a 
man slipped, God have mercy on his soul! 

Who would say as much for him? Not Paul! 

He asked for no mercy, for nothing outside the love of 
the one being who had been his lodestar and hope of salva¬ 
tion throughout his erring life. There was still no thought 
of Adrienne. 

Somehow or other he must get to Arenzano or at least, 
to the Orense frontier. 

IV 

So much must be fairly conjectural, but it is at least 
certain that, by some means or other, the Count obtained a 
horse at the inn after midnight, and rode off leisurely into 
the night, that he arrived about six in the morning at 
Forresti. 

Here he ordered a room and a meal, and apparently 
decided to rest before attempting the long climb to those 
far away heights, as he might well do, considering his 
exhausted condition. None dared comment on his 
appearance, haggard, unshaven, and still moving as a man 
in a dream. It is recorded that the landlord ventured to 
put toilet necessities in His Magnificence’s room. But for 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


179 


his haggard face, he appears to have been rightly attired and 
duly shaved when he again came down. Even if one 
intended falling down a crevasse one might do so decently 
apparelled and properly fed! 

It was very characteristic. 


V 

Sylvestro had flung himself still dressed on his bed and 
nature had consoled him with a few hours’ sleep. He was 
awakened by Paul shaking him by the shoulder and saying: 

“Get up quickly, you must come to Arenzano with me.” 

The whole hideous scene of the previous night rushed to 
his mind with pitiless distinction. Arenzano was at least 
away from Raphael’s vicinity, however! 

He sprang up. 

“I must change. Do we ride?” 

“I should founder any horse I crossed,” was the grim 
answer. “I’ve ordered a carriage. Be quick!” 

He went away. Sylvestro joined him in a few minutes. 
A few bewildered servants were moving about, and a 
carriage was waiting at the door. Some one insisted on 
their having coffee. The Prince swore at the delay but 
drank it. When they were in the carriage, Sylvestro saw at 
their feet a long narrow case, that was kept in the gallery 
where they fenced, though it held no more fencing foils. 
Paul, however, said nothing and Sylvestro, terrified again 
by matters beyond his managing, dared not ask questions. 
Only since he was certain that wherever Raphael was, he 
would not be at Arenzano, he was thankful to get Paul 
away. At Arenzano he might get—sane! 

The coachman apparently had his instructions, for they 
drove at reckless speed, and the light carriage and powerful 
horses swallowed up the miles as the advancing day 


180 


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swallowed up the night, and sprang up presently with a burst 
of glorious sunlight. 

VI 

Signor Folli of the Pavia University, where he was a 
professor of Greek prose, had been over-working, and had 
been advised a change to quiet country and fresh air, with 
neither students nor pen and paper to tempt him to industry. 
He came to Forresti, found a use for pen and ink there 
which was not conducive to a rest-cure, and if his own 
account is too pedantic and poorly expressed for literal 
transcription, the matter of it is very clear and, with 
supplementary records, enables us to form a vivid picture of 
the happenings of that unhappy sunny April morning. 

The early morning sun, streaming in the uncurtained 
window, awoke Signor Folli to action on the second morn¬ 
ing of his holiday. He rose with something of the gaiety of 
a boy, and went down to see if chocolate and rolls were 
forthcoming at such an hour. There appeared to be a new 
arrival since the evening, a tall thin man who sat resting his 
head on his hand for the most part, and seemed little 
interested in food. There might be possibilities of 
companionship. Then the man by the window turned his 
head and Folli got a shock! 

A white mask of a face and eyes with heavy black rims, so 
odd and so inscrutable in expression that Folli dropped his 
in horror. 

He wondered if the forest would be safe walking. He 
had misty recollections of stories of wolves—he must ask. 
What could have put it into his head? He delayed going 
out. He sat where he was by the open window, partially 
hidden by a high-backed settle, and he looked out into the 
sunny little garden with an orchard beyond, already white 
with blossom. 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


181 


There was the sound of a carriage outside. The man at 
the other table rose. Folli could hear his rather heavy deep 
breathing and saw him glance queerly at the door, and then 
he stepped out of the glass door nearest him and, crossing 
the garden, entered the little orchard and was lost amid the 
blossoms. Presently Folli discerned him seated on an over¬ 
turned barrow staring at the ground. 

There were steps in the passage outside and voices. The 
door was flung open and a man entered. He seemed to 
Folli, who appears to have been a small man, gigantic, not 
only by reason of his stature, but by the shadowing 
personality of him and also again (this made twice in a 
morning) Folli, who loved his fellow creatures, was shocked 
by a face. Behind the big man there appeared another man 
with an expression of nothing but sick dread on him. This 
man put his hand on the bigger man's arm—Folli wondered 
at his courage—and he spoke. 

“He’s not here, Paul, come away; let’s go to Arenzano.” 

“He is here,” returned the other fiercely; “Get out of my 
way, Baby, damn you!” 

He strode through the room to the glass door by which 
the first man had left, and across the lawn; the frightened 
man followed him. 

Folli shrank back behind the folds of the curtain. He 
did not want to be seen but he did undoubtedly want to 
understand. 

In the passage outside, the innkeeper was wringing his 
hands, and a stable-man was saying over and over again: 
“It’s not our business, Galmo. It’s not our business.” 

Then the door was pulled to and Folli was alone again, 
and he looked out of the window to the orchard. 

The first man—Folli instinctively referred to him as 
“my man”—had risen and was leaning back against the tree, 
and the big man stood opposite. He was talking. Once 


182 


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the third of the group gave a little cry and put up his hands 
appealingly, and at last he did a thing that again caught 
Folli’s admiration. He flung himself between the two and 
spoke, with passion and emphasis; some words even reached 
Folli’s ears. 

"You shall not murder each other! If you must fight—” 
He lost the context, then caught—"Properly—seconds—a 
doctor.” 

A moment later he ran back to the house carrying two 
long rapiers with him. He thrust his head into the window 
nearest Folli, and exclaimed: 

"Ah! I thought I saw a man!” 

He spoke rapidly and as one in utter desperation. 

"Your pardon, sir, but are you—that is, can you second a 
man in a fight? I will have a second for him!” 

Folli got to his feet. 

"I have done so in my youth,” he stammered out, and 
then pulling forth a card-case, he extracted a card and 
nervously handed it over. 

"Not a doctor, by any chance?” 

"I know a little of wounds, not much,” muttered Folli. 

"Galmo must serve then for a doctor—he’s a wonder with 
horses! I will have things in order!” 

He broke out in furious despair. 

"Sir, these two men will fight! I’ve done all I can, but 
the devil is too strong for me. You must second the man 
who was staying here.” 

Folli was apparently by now in the garden, though he 
does not say when he got there. The rapiers were thrust 
into his hands. 

"Keep these. I dared not leave them with them. I’ll find 
Galmo.” 

He disappeared into the house, Folli stood helplessly 
holding the swords, and hating them. What did a second 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


183 


have to do? Could he do it? Where had he seen that big 
man before? 

The other reappeared. 

“Galmo’s brother is staying with him—and is a doctor! 
What luck! Come along, he will follow us.” 

He strode off, Folli following in his wake, and at some 
trouble to keep pace with him. 

In the orchard between the trees the big man was striding 
up and down. Ten paces up and ten paces down, and talking 
under his breath, and always he kept between the gate and 
the first man—“my man” in Folk’s account. This one had 
already taken off his coat and waistcoat, but had reseated 
himself on the barrow and sat with his hands between his 
knees staring at nothing. If the big man paused in his 
stride or looked at him, he shivered. When the gate 
slammed to, he started violently; and the other turned with 
insane joy in his eyes. 

The man called by the ridiculous name of “Baby” went 
to the one on the barrow, and said: 

“Raphael, this is Signor Folli, a Professor from Pavia. 
He’s to second you. And I’ve got hold of a doctor— 
Galmo’s brother, do you remember him ? It’s no use talking 
to Paul. Will this do?” 

The Raphael man got up wearily, saw Folli, and bowed 
mechanically. 

Folli held out the swords. 

“Have I choice ?” asked Raphael, indifferently. 

“Baby,” the impatient, said with a sort of groan. 

“You are to take every advantage you can. For God’s 
sake, wound him lightly and quickly, and let out some 
blood!” 

He went back to his own man. 

“I’ve forgotten the little I ever knew of the etiquette,” 
began Folli, apologetically. 


184 


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“There is no etiquette here.” He looked Folli up and 
down oddly. “I regret having to trouble you. It’s the sort 
of debt that is hard to pay.” 

“Please don't,” returned Folli, almost tearfully. “I am 
glad to help. I think I remember now, I fought once and 
wounded my man.” 

The two men stood opposite each other. The sunlight 
filtered through the trees and flecked them with patches of 
brightness. Folli indeed insisted on moving his man. The 
grass seemed abnormally green, and the white blossoms 
amazingly white against the tender blue sky. It was an 
ideal spring day. Beneath the olives beyond the orchard, 
red anemones starred the grass. Folli saw them and looked 
away quickly. He saw then that a fifth man had joined 
them and was standing a little apart, with a frightened face. 

The big man they called Paul sprang at once on guard, 
but Folli’s man stood still with his sword down, and he 
spoke very clearly and steadily. 

“Paul, listen to me. Nothing can come of this but black 
trouble, however it goes with either of us. I've wronged 
you, her, and our name, and I swear I'll go out of the 
world if you will let me go decently, so that neither you nor 
others are further harmed.” 

The answer came swift, hot, torrential, in the shape of a 
blow. 

Folli’s man passed his hand across his smarting face, and 
was on guard. 

For months after, Signor Folli, who had gone to Forresti 
because of jangled nerves, heard at night the angry slither 
of steel. The furious onslaught of the man Paul only failed 
to go home by a miracle, it seemed. Even Folli’s un¬ 
practised eye could see that his man was barely putting up a 
defence. 

He glanced appealingly at “Baby.” He had not bargained 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


185 


for murder! “Baby” frowned and chafed, and thrust the 
stick he carried between the crossed blades. 

“Paul! Raphael! Stop! Either you fight properly or 
leave off. Raphael’s not even defending himself. It’s 
murder!” 

Paul laughed. 

“He never lacked skill before to destroy men—or women! 
Move, Sylvestro.” 

“No—Wait! Raphael, you then, listen. Remember what 
I said to you, and fight, or I swear I’ll run in between you, 
and you’ll kill me!” 

He dropped back. 

Folli was aware of the doctor standing behind him. A 
badly dressed young man with a long sallow nervous face. 

“Any one hurt ?” he asked in a whisper. 

Folli shook his head. His man was fighting now, and was 
clearly the better swordsman of the two, though the other’s 
reach was prodigious. Yes, he was sure he was trying! 
Sylvestro—that was better than the stupid “Baby,” Folli 
thought—was watching him too. He kept muttering: “If 
only he’ll wound him in time.” 

Then the long reach gained its end. Folli saw the blade 
slip in not by the right side of his man, and there was a 
sickening, gasping cry. He fell before his assailant could 
pull out his sword, but he did so as the other touched the 
ground, and the white shirt crimsoned. 

Folli and the doctor rushed forward, the former strug¬ 
gling against an overpowering sense of nausea, but 
Sylvestro was first. He caught the prone figure in his arms. 

“Raphael! Raphael!” he cried. 

The victor stood looking down at them. His face was 
calm now, with a look of keen satisfaction as of one who 
had done a good deed. He wiped his sword thoughtfully 
on the grass. The doctor pushed Folli aside and busied 


186 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


himself, Sylvestro helping. Folli dared not look, till 
suddenly the wounded man began coughing. 

“That will end it,” muttered the doctor. 

The fallen man feebly pushed aside the doctor’s restrain¬ 
ing hand. 

“Paul!” he gasped in jerky sentences, but still audible. 
“You’ve got your revenge. I’d have died anyhow, but you 
chose this—now—now it’s over—Paul! Forgive. Touch 
me once—I want you—” 

He made an effort and stretched out his hand, and fell 
back with a moan. 

That other, looking down at him, laughed, and then fell to 
cursing him in words so appalling that Folli covered his ears, 
and the doctor attending to the wounded man said, again 
and again: 

“It’s a case of sunstroke, of sunstroke, sunstroke!” 

It seemed as if nothing would stop Paul. He poured out 
epithets on the dying man like flames of hot wrath, and then 
the victim of it struggled up again with diabolical strength, 
and cursed back. Cursed his brother in life and in death, in 
his affections, his honor, his salvation, till Sylvestro sprang 
up with a shriek. 

“Are we all madmen?” he cried. “Paul, you are Lord 
of Arenzano, stop!” He caught him by the arm and actual¬ 
ly flung him back out of sight of those other burning eyes, 
and Raphael fell back. 

Folli leaned against a tree with his eyes hidden. Some¬ 
one seized his arm and thrust a coat and waistcoat into his 
hand. 

“Take those to him. Say nothing, only see where he 
goes—to Arenzano or Cardozza. Go with him, if you can.” 
The speaker tore back to the prostrate figure on the grass. 

Folli looked at the clothes; he could hardly bring himself 
to touch them, but in the distance the figure he was to follow 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


187 


went with leisurely steps across the grass. Left to himself, 
Folli would have gone to the ends of the earth rather than 
encounter him again, but somehow one had to obey that 
agitated man. He overtook the other just by the house and 
thrust the garments before him, half thinking his last hour 
had come. But Paul was hardly aware of Folli; he only 
noticed that some one was handing him his clothes, and he 
put them on deliberately, looking with some disgust at a 
small red patch on his shirt sleeve. Finally, he went straight 
through the inn, and out to the courtyard. A carriage was 
still waiting, but the horses had been changed. Folli, mind¬ 
ful of orders, followed cautiously. He heard him say to the 
waiting groom, who stood with shaking limbs at the carriage 
door. 

“To Cardozza, and go fast. I have to address the Senate 
to-night r 

The carriage swung out of the yard. Folli, with intense 
relief, turned back to the orchard, only stopping to look in 
at the room where the inn-people stood huddled together in 
a horrified group. 

“They will want a room, a bed,” he said. 

“Is he badly hurt ?” gasped one. 

“Badly.” 

“And the Prince is safe?” 

“The big man is not injured.” 

He felt, rather than heard the sigh of relief, and a woman 
said: 

“The saints be praised!” 

But Signor Folli praised neither saints nor devils. He 
went back to the orchard and some of them followed him. 

VII 

Carfax had sent a note to Damien, who was quartered at 
the Metelene Barracks, directly he heard of Paul’s departure. 


188 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


The note brought Damien hot-footed to the Orense Palace, 
tempestuous, and swept with the alternate gusts of shame 
and fury, all directed against Raphael. 

Carfax forced him to listen to a calm narrative of the 
events of the previous night, and showed him the pencil 
scrawl that Sylvestro had left: 

“He has taken it into his head to go to Arenzano, perhaps 
it will save him. I will try and send back a message. Any¬ 
how Raphael can’t have gone there.” 

Carfax, remembering Raphael’s random words, let out 
his sick dread to Damien, who still would not or could not 
see the reason for Sylvestro’s fear. 

“Of course, Paul can’t fight him. He’ll see as much by 
now, but I don’t wonder he wants to ! Oh, the black sick 
shame of it all! Why on earth can’t Paul leave it, there’d 
be plenty ready to do the job.” 

Carfax noted wearily that while Sylvestro seemed to 
gain calm in an emergency, Damien seemed to lose it in 
proportion as he lost his temper. 

“There’ll be nothing for it but to resign—for Paul and 
me too! Ruin for the country if Paul goes? Yes, of course 
—that’s Raphael’s work! Back we must all go to Arenzano 
with dishonor for company! Oh, it’s beyond words. It’s 
destruction. I should think Paul was mad !” 

Carfax, remembering the mad eyes and mad words, 
shivered. He had fancied himself impervious to horrors, 
but last night had shaken his assurance. 

So they waited for a message and the morning wore on. 
A sunny, cheerful morning, warm and fragrant, hardly to 
be associated with disaster. 

They went out into the formal garden behind the Palace. 
Damien stood by a fountain, dropping little stones into the 
clear green water to frighten the red fish. He was gloomy 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


189 


and silent. Carfax was listening all the time for horses* 
hoofs. Hearing seemed the only sense left alive. 

He had looked at the morning newspaper. It was 
ominously silent as to last evening’s revelations. A 
secretary had told him that His Majesty had asked repeated¬ 
ly for his Chief Minister. Everybody was apparently 
waiting for some event to be born. 

Presently they went back to the big library and, since one 
must eat, at mid-day there came a meal. 

Damien dismissed the footman impatiently. 

The door opened and Paul came in. He was exceedingly 
white and his eyes were unnaturally bright, but he had an 
air of suppressed content. He stood at the door looking at 
them for a moment, and then walked to his accustomed 
place at the table. 

Damien half rose in his chair. That white face beat more 
understanding into his head than all Carfax’s words. 

Paul put his hand on his chair and said, as he sat down, in 
a tone that conveyed even more satisfaction than his face: 

“I have killed Raphael. Get me some food, Damien, I’m 
hungry.” 

Damien, who had quite lately had roughly declared his 
own good will to kill Raphael himself, started up and 
clutched the table edge. 

“Paul, you don’t know what you’re saying! Where’s 
Sylvestro ?” 

“Seeing to the funeral, I suppose. Oh, he wasn’t dead 
when I left, worse luck, but he must be now. I ran him 
through the side. He wanted me to make friends—” He 
laughed, shook off Damien and sat down. The two stood 
staring at him, speechless for the moment. 

Paul gazed in front of him; his bright eyes, hard and 
curious, saw everything and saw nothing. He poured out 


190 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


some wine but he did not drink it. Carfax cautiously pushed 
it away and put water in its place. 

“Paul,” he said gently. “You are saying things which 
are very terrible. Raphael is your brother, and you and he 
have stood side by side through good and evil since you 
were babies. And he loves you.” 

Paul twisted his lips into a smile. 

“You would not say so if you had heard his last words— 
though I gave them him back!” He looked up suddenly to 
Carfax with fear in his eyes. 

“You don’t think I’ve failed after all, do you?” 

“I think you will soon wish you had, Paul.” 

Carfax leaned forward, speaking with slow emphasis, and 
with a passionate conviction that would have left his English 
friends stupefied with amazement, but it had come to him to 
see that the reason of this great “Boy” of his, in whom his 
pride and hope were centered, was swaying in the balance. 
Fear of him, anger with him, were equally useless. The 
only hope was to break through into the hidden range of his 
passionate affections. Reticence was an enemy, Sentiment 
an ally. Carfax must trample on his first instincts if he 
were to win. 

He stretched out his hand and laid it on that of the Prince, 
and fought to establish a unity of mind that would open 
again the flood-gates of Paul’s humanity. 

Damien stood, leaning on his chair, watching them, but 
the fascination that still kept his eyes glued to Paul was 
horror. 

He ended thus: 

“If you cannot weep for the man you have killed, then 
weep for the dead brother that you will never see again. 
Weep for Arenzano without Raphael. The forest—without 
Raphael; all your beautiful life—without Raphael forever!” 


ON AN APRIL MORNING 


191 


And Paul sat staring before him as Raphael himself had 
sat staring that morning, and seeing nothing. 

Then at last he turned his eyes to Carfax who saw the 
agony in them, and said: 

“Stop! You torture me. I must forget—not remember. 
What are you doing, Carfax? Oh! curse you! I was 
beginning to forget!” 

With a great and terrible cry he fell forward, and Carfax 
knew he had won! 

Late that evening came a message from Sylvestro—a 
mere hurried, penciled line. 

“Raphael still alive. I have sent to Alquarto. Cannot 
leave here, but I will send in the morning, if he still lives. 
Let me know if Paul is safe with you.” 

They told the Prince that Raphael lived. He listened with 
unmoved face and went up to his room. They heard him 
walking to and fro, up and down, long into the night. 

Two days later Carfax went to Forresti and found the 
Duchess of Alquarto there, and the Countess Sylvestro with 
her. Sylvestro returned to Cardozza, and Carfax stayed on. 

On the fourth morning after receiving the usual message 
and hearing it, as usual, without a sign, the Prince ordered 
his carriage and drove to the Palace. 


XVII 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 

I 

'T'O one individual the downfall of Count Raphael was 
an unceasing evil joy. 

Rivoli sat staring at the news sheet with a thin smile on 
his face, which for so long had forgotten how to smile. 

The news looked better for his purpose in the crude print 
than it had done in writing. It had been a costly business 
first and last. Good tools, however driven by secret neces¬ 
sity were costly, but they were cheap at any price in view of 
the satisfaction with which Rivoli viewed the result of their 
work! He had made no error in leaving the doorway into 
his trap to chance. Chanced backed, that is, by his 
knowledge of human nature and temperament, and guarded 
by a hundred secret watching eyes. 

He had neither pity nor thought for innocent victims. 
The Duchess of Alquarto, for example, was of no moment to 
him save that her existence served as an additional scourge 
for Count Raphael. It was by Chance again, that he saw 
tucked away in a corner of that infernal news-sheet a few 
lines, mentioning that the date of the fire, April 14th, was 
the date of the Prince d’Arenzano’s birthday, and that he 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


193 


was that day at Arenzano, according to custom. Then 
followed a satirical comment on the Count’s absence from 
the family circle. 

Rivoli’s fertile brain decided that whatever occasions in 
his life might give Prince d’Arenzano cause for rejoicing, 
his birthday should not be one of them. 

Two days later, he received news of the duel—more 
accurate news than ever reached the general public. He 
suffered some hours of real fear, for it was no part of his 
plan that Count Raphael should die yet. His life once 
assured, he felt a glow of approval towards the passion-torn 
man who had so accelerated his revenge. 

There is very little data to go on. The only matter which 
remained quite clear is Rivoli’s deliberate intention to wreak 
his vengeance on the d’Arenzanos with calculated cruelty 
and effectiveness, and that he carried out his intention with 
an amazing cunning that leads us to suspect that a very thin 
curtain indeed separated Luigi Rivoli from insanity. 

Private letters, records, and accounts, carry us thus far— 
but then comes a gap. 

There is no record whatever of the Prince’s interview 
with the King, or of the eventual bargain between them. 
We know he fought hard to resign, and that enemies and 
supporters alike ringed themselves around him, and raised 
deafening protests. 

There is little doubt that had the Prince resigned the 
helm, the ship of state would have foundered. One half of 
Society was acquiring a conscience slowly, and awoke to its 
existence when this moral catastrophe tore open the curtain 
and showed what lay behind the easy tolerance of Court 
life. The other half of Society whispered of bad luck, but 
were well disposed to accept the sacrifice of the "unlucky” 
as the price of its own safety, and publicly assumed a 
conscience they did not possess. 


194 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Talk of the scandal was endless—the tragedy of it seems 
to have been almost unperceived. It was regrettable, un¬ 
fortunate, madly foolish, unpardonable—everything in turn 
but never the black overwhelming disaster it really was. 

Here and there one catches a fleeting glimpse of the 
general mind in contemporary letters. 

“They say the Prince insists on resigning. If he does we 
shall abandon Cardozza. With Sario at the head of affairs 
there would be no inducement to remain here.” 

“There is a report that the Prince has fought his brother 
and killed him, but there is no confirmation of it. We are 
now all trying to find out who had the inconceivable stupidity 
to give the story away.” And so on. 

Not good or useful reading! 

There is incontrovertible (but not producible) evidence 
for believing that the Prince at last agreed to remain in 
office at the price of the Queen’s banishment. It seems 
inconceivable that there should have been any question of 
her return to Cardozza, but Frederick was Frederick! He, 
however, had to choose between the Minister who removed 
from his shoulders the burden of State responsibility and the 
company of the woman who had never pretended to be 
faithful to him, but who, until now, had used sufficient 
discretion to permit him the privilege of short-sight. 

He chose the Minister. It is not unlikely it was a case of 
that or his crown. The Queen was banished to Rivo, and 
Prince d’Arenzano continued to direct the affairs of the 
country. 

The Duchess of Alquarto had never been sufficiently well- 
known in Cardozza to make much appeal to the popular 
imagination, so her share in the calamity provoked little 
comment beyond fatuous pity that bordered on contempt. 

So much for the public effect of the great scandal. 

The private and immediate results were naturally more 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


195 


intricate. There are some letters of Count Sylvestro to 
King Augustine which, coupled with the Carfax 
correspondence of that period, make the sequel of the events 
that ended with the disappearance of Count Raphael fairly 
clear. 

King Augustine himself writes: 

“My dear Count, 

“A horrible rumor has reached us, following on the heels 
of the miserable business, to the effect that the Prince has 
met and fought Raphael, and that the latter is mortally 
wounded. Kindly send me information as to the truth or 
falsity of this by the courier who bears this message, and 
also of your respective fortunes. 

“Believe me to entertain the greatest sympathy for you 
all in this calamity, and to assure you of my friendship. 

“Augustine.” 


“Sir, 

“I have deep regret in confirming rumor for once. They 
fought five days ago. Raphael is still living but it is almost 
permissible to wish it might end, so greatly does he suffer. 
The Duchess of Alquarto—like the noble woman she is—is 
with him. He still lies at the little inn at Forresti, and it is 
doubtful when he can be moved. I returned myself to 
Cardozza last night, leaving my wife and Mr. Carfax, whom 
I am thankful to say was staying with us, in charge. It adds 
greatly to our anxieties that the Duchess expects their child 
in August, and such a shock is not conducive to its well¬ 
being. One would have imagined that my brother might 
have remembered our own loss and forborne adding to the 
tragic possibilities of the present. Truly Love drives men 
to strange cruelties. We are in a parlous state here, Paul 
being greatly desirous to resign, the King and the country 


196 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


clamorous to retain him. How the struggle will end I can¬ 
not foresee. 

"I cannot too deeply express my thanks for your kindness 
in writing us your assurance of continual friendship, for I 
fear the injury our House has inflicted on the country must 
have widespreading results, and can leave not even Your 
Majesty untouched. Poor Damien is beaten to the earth 
with the strain of it, and since he cannot resign until Paul 
sets him an example, he is preparing to transfer to an 
Artillery Corps stationed abroad. For my part I am too 
concerned with those immediately affected to trouble much 
what the world says or thinks. I will send a further report 
of Raphael's progress wthin the week. 

“I have, Sir, the honor to be 
“Your most devoted servant, 

• “Sylvestro d'Arenzano.” 

Couriers, without doubt, went to and fro between Forresti 
and Mantos. Even the scandal involving the ruin of his 
notorious cousin could not quench the deep friendship of 
the King for Count Raphael. Indirectly it led to his private 
visit to England and his amazing marriage. Probably the 
only happy outcome of the disaster. 

Carfax and Count Sylvestro exchanged duties from time 
to time, as well as letters and reports. 

The duties at Forresti were of a nature to try the devotion 
of the stoutest, and the almost incredible behavior of Count 
Raphael as he moved towards convalescence was such that 
one wonders, if he had not cut the knot himself, what would 
have been the outcome of it. 

In the earlier days of his illness the presence of his wife 
seemed to have calmed his fever, but on the first steps toward 
convalescence the man's whole nature seemed to change. 
From a dumb gratitude to the really splendid woman whose 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


197 


love overcame the blow to her honor and pride that her 
husband had dealt her, Count Raphael passed to a morose 
opposition, rejecting her services, refusing her company, or 
receiving her with a wounding sarcasm that was more than 
her bruised spirit could bear. 

It seems unlucky that during these trying days she should 
not have kept up a regular correspondence with her friend, 
whom she had left in charge at Alquarto. There is one 
letter extant of this period: one wonders whether its 
preservation was the result of accident or design. It is sad 
enough reading. 

To Adele DeLille. 

“My dear Friend, 

“Your letter with its sympathy and understanding was 
balm to me. I keep it on me as a reminder that whatever 
goes to ruin in this cruel world, Friendship at least continues 
to burn a pure light. Raphael is better, even to the extent of 
being laid on a sofa each day, but I cannot say that the 
improvement in his health brings improvement in the situa¬ 
tion. Alas, with returning strength—little as it is—his 
humor towards me has changed. I tell myself it is but the 
caprice of a sick man, but in my heart I feel it is no 
caprice. He will hardly let me enter his room, will accept 
nothing from me, and to-day met my visit with such words 
that I—to save myself from unsuitable retorts—went away. 
I am hardly in a condition to stand more. Judge how upset 
I am that I should write such words to you of the man whom 
I had decided to forgive utterly. Adele, he is making 
forgiveness very hard. The devotion of Mr. Carfax and his 
care for me are the only things that make the situation 
bearable. What will be the end? I cannot see, indeed, 
to-day I can only feel, hence the weakness of writing to you 
in such a strain. Discount my complaints, dear friend, 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


remembering I am in a poor condition to judge calmly or 
exercise the forbearance I should show. 

“Eunice is a true helper but she has gone to Arenzano for 
two days to see after the little Max who, poor child, amongst 
all these disasters is forlornly troubled. Sylvestro was here 
last week, kind and encouraging, as usual, but Raphael gave 
him a bad reception. He is still fairly considerate to Mr. 
Carfax. It is most unhappy of all that he refuses to have 
the services of his faithful Romano who, in utter despair, 
has now returned to Arenzano. I wonder sometimes if he 
aims at driving each one of us away in turn. Nothing 
seems too fantastically absurb or unbearable. 

“I hope for another letter soon to support me. It is a 
vast consolation to think of you at Alquarto, to know I shall 
not return to a home peopled only with shadows! 

“I am, 

“Your unhappy friend, 
“Adrienne.” 

One is tempted to wonder whether, in view of subsequent 
events, the Duchess had not hit on the exact truth and that 
Raphael, torn with remorse, shame, and misery that turned 
on itself, was not deliberately attempting to drive from his 
side all those generous friends who were still willing to 
pardon his offence. It is certain that a short time after his 
wife wrote this letter, he took the one more step she had 
feared, insulting her so cruelly that within an hour she was 
on her way homewards, accompanied by Countess Sylvestro, 
who feared for her to take the journey alone. 

Carfax was therefore left in sole charge. It was now 
possible to move the invalid, but the awkward question, 
“Where to?” had to be faced. They stayed on at the little 
inn from sheer reluctance to discuss the matter. 

The result of the Duchess’ forced retreat and the long 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


199 


journey was the premature birth of her son, who came into 
the world on June 18th, 1833, and was christened Honore 
Sebastian Augustine. 

The news of the birth and the welfare of the mother and 
child was sent to Carfax for transmission to the father. 
Raphael’s attitude to his old tutor was fast going the way of 
his attitude to his wife and his brother Sylvestro. Again 
one can imagine set purpose in the apparently inexcusable 
behavior. 

He appears to have taunted him with his nationality, his 
colorless life, his failure with the d’Arenzano family in 
general—and even his faithfulness to the worst member as 
proceeding from mercenary motives. The last taunt had 
taken Carfax abruptly from his presence with his news 
untold; and all we can conceive is that the over-keen ear had 
caught stray words uttered by the courier as he handed in 
his letter in the courtyard below the bedroom window— 

“A boy—Her Grace doing well so far—” 

Carfax had said no word of courier or letter when he 
entered. Finding his invalid in a bad mood, he determined 
to get him dressed first, and on to the sofa in the poor sitting 
room, which was all the inn could offer them. 

Then the growing irritation, the renewed taunts, and the 
fine insult! Carfax succumbed and went out—another 
moment and he felt he must have struck the man, helpless as 
he was. 

When he came back two hours later, Raphael had dis¬ 
appeared. 

II 

With that Count Raphael passed out of the lives of his 
friends for six long black years. Short of issuing public 
advertisement, they did all they could to trace him, but he 
had covered his tracks well. He had a small fortune of his 


200 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


own, left him by Count Everard, who had died some ten 
years back, and made Raphael his heir with the cynical avow¬ 
al that some day he would fall out with Paul, and need bread 
and butter. Sylvestro ascertained that the whole capital had 
been drawn out in hard cash, but that the rest of the money 
that lay to his credit, and was part of the settlement which 
Paul had made over to him when he married, was untouched. 
Also a note was left for Count Sylvestro only to be delivered 
if enquiries were made. It was a cruelly curt note but it 
sufficiently prevented even Sylvestro pursuing enquiries 
further. 

“Dear Sylvestro, 

“You will not receive this unless you are still sufficiently 
curious as to my downward career to try to ascertain what I 
am doing with my money. You will find I have taken com¬ 
plete possession of it. It is sufficient, with care, to keep me 
going for quite as long a time as I care to look forward to. 
The rest, which is not mine, can be reclaimed by the original 
owner. I leave instructions with the bank to that purpose. 
I have at last found my true metier: to wit, an independent 
existence free from the foolish responsibilities and publicity 
of that life to which you are so unfortunately condemned. 
If you have any spark of feeling for a man who was your 
brother, and is now no more, you will not plague me by 
tracing me out to gratify your curiosity about a non-existent 
being. I say this much because there is just a remote chance 
that you may have the inconceivable folly to stand apart 
from the philosophic contempt of the rest of your family at 
the providential demise of an offending member. 

“Do not burden yourself with remembering me to anyone. 

“Yours truly, 

“Raphael Salvator.” 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


201 


This heartless production could hardly have done much to 
cheer the burden of Count Sylvestro’s days, for he well 
knew that Raphael's bitterest words covered his deepest 
misery, but he made no effort to trace his brother. Raphael 
was alive. To the kindly Count Sylvestro that fact was 
consolation. He had no great imagination but he went about 
his daily tasks the easier for knowing that somewhere or 
other on God's earth his brother was alive! 

The Duchess, with her new-born son, made no attempt to 
trace him either. For her, the Raphael of her dreams, the 
lover, the husband, the hero, was dead. She mourned for 
him as dead. It might even be said that, as time went on, 
she actually believed in the fiction her imagination had set up 
as a barrier between herself and the cruel truth; at all 
events she chose to bring up her son in such a belief. The 
little Honore grew up in entire ignorance of the truth. 

So the first black year passed with no warning of the 
further blackness it was dragging in its train. 

The Prince continued to administer the State. But he 
failed utterly to administer himself. He had been a 
religious man in the best sense. He denied his religion 
since it demanded of him the renunciation of his hate. He 
refused access to his old friend and confessor, Father Pierre, 
who since boyhood had been his good adviser and somewhat 
stern monitor. The vast humanity and quick affection of 
the man became entirely hidden. Men no longer sought him, 
they feared him. They might indeed trust his intellect and 
his integrity but as a personality he was obeyed with an 
alacrity that no longer sprang from love; he was avoided 
socially as far as policy permitted, and he went on his way 
unheeding, a stern hard man, who had braved the satirical 
comments of the world in retaining his post, and flung at it 
scorn for scorn, and did his work without reference to any 
man's opnion. 


202 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Early in March, 1834, Queen Antoinette was killed by a 
fall from her horse. It would be affectation to suppose the 
accident was a source of regret to anyone but her betrayed 
husband. It produced in him a dull melancholia which left 
him prone to illness and no doubt aggravated the attack of 
pneumonia which, in the early autumn of 1834, ended his 
life. 

But before that date new disaster had fallen on the House 
of Arenzano. 

Almost the last letter that Count Sylvestro wrote was to 
Leslie Thornton, with whom he corresponded from time to 
time, reporting such domestic news of the family as might 
be suitable to pass on to the King, if such were Thornton’s 
desire. 

“Dear Thornton, 

“I think it may interest you to hear news of Raphael. I 
saw him last week in Paris. He wrote for the first time 
asking me to see after some money affairs which could only 
be conducted in Cardozza, and to remit results to him in 
Paris. Contrary to his direct orders I took the results in 
person. He was moved to vast anger at first but eventually 
decided to endure my presence, and we spent the evening in 
avoiding the many subjects that must not be mentioned. He 
seems to entertain no thought of approaching his wife nor 
did he enquire for her, though—with some skill, I flatter 
myself—I conveyed to him information of her and his 
son’s well-being. He also declines to approach his country. 
I regret to say that he still looks most infernally ill, though a 
cautious enquiry as to his health was not well received. 
It cut me to the heart to leave him there alone but what 
could I do? He made it clear he had no further desire for 
my company, whereas my dear Eunice has the greatest 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


203 


desire for it, so I returned to Arenzano. There is nothing 
to be done but leave him for the present. 

“My poor little wife is a changed woman these days. She 
was always one of the comfortable, happy souls who believe 
everything is really right in the word—had I not such a 
tendency myself in far off days?—but she cannot square our 
tragedy with any sort of rightness. Happily Max has to be 
considered. It has been a bad shock for the child. He was 
devoted to both Raphael and Paul, as you know. To be told 
that he must never mention Raphael’s name in Paul’s hear¬ 
ing; to see—from afar and at wide intervals—Paul, so 
horribly altered, and so unapproachable as to be practically 
oblivious to his existence, would alone be enough to empty 
his Paradise. 

“Paul has been here three times. Eunice and Max, I am 
afraid, are both terrified of him; probably, if I dared, I 
should be too! Pie only comes, happily for us, when 
necessity and the law drive him, and the people get out of 
the way and the women cross themselves, and think I don’t 
see: and Eunice and I try to make conversation with each 
other, but he does not listen. It is not exhilarating! If I 
had not her and Max to keep me warm I think I’d emigrate 
to Hades as an agreeable change! 

“Forgive me, my good friend, for thus using you as a well 
into which to pour my sorrows; but it’s a relief, which I 
trust you will never need to experience, to speak plain facts 
to some one. 

“Next week is Paul’s birthday, so far generally celebrated 
here with a ceremonial dinner to the Orense nobles and much 
feasting of the people; and it happens to be the anniversary 
of that thrice accursed fire at Brantzia. No, I shall not 
convey felicitations to Paul. The dinner must be given but 
I pray to all the saints that he may not take it into his head 


204 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


to be present. Set down, of your good charity, my 
despondency to a fear he will come. 

“And it is of Paul I write. The father, mother, brother 
of his turbulent family—Paul, the well-beloved—I wish I 
were a woman, Thornton, to weep as I would! 

“Your sincere friend, 

“Sylvestro d’Arenzano.” 

The anniversary dawned without the shadow of the 
Prince’s personal presence falling on Arenzano. It was a 
clear, lovely day. All preparations being made for the feast, 
and the numberless duties having been performed, Count 
Sylvestro looked round for some refreshment to his spirit 
before facing the laborious make-believe of the afternoon. 
There might be just time before the expected guests arrived 
to try the little sailing boat he had built (Boats were his 
special hobby). Long afterwards it was discovered the idea 
was suggested to him by the young workman who had 
assisted him in the building of the boat, and who appeared 
naturally anxious to try it. 

They both disappeared in the direction of the lake. The 
new boat was waiting and ready; Jano, the helper, had seen 
to that. They were soon off, Count Sylvestro manoeuvering 
his little craft up and down the lake with consummate skill. 
It was with regret he turned again to the shore and duty. 
But as he turned—on a sudden, before he could voice his 
amazed anger—the ropes of the sail were cut by the traitor, 
Jano, and another boat that had dashed out from behind 
a sheltering promontory ran alongside. He dropped the 
tiller and sprang forward, but a blow from an oar, catching 
him across the face, destroyed his balance in the rocking 
boat, he fell across the thwarts and a sand bag descending on 
his head rendered him unconscious. The four men carried 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


205 


his unconscious form into a little wood that bordered that 
end of the lake, and two, returning, busied themselves with 
the boat, which they capsized and pushed out into the lake; 
refastened the other boat, which was one the Count used 
for fishing purposes, and rejoined their companions, who 
with their unconscious victim were concealed in a dilapidated 
hut of some charcoal-burner, and there they remained till 
night lent her black assistance to their aims. 

The hour of arrivals drew on and the Countess Sylvestro 
dispatched messengers to her husband’s room to learn if he 
were ready. Then messengers to the stable, the foresters’ 
quarters, the Court House—messengers went everywhere, 
with equally futile results. 

The first guests to arrive were the Orsenas—the premier 
noble of the Province and old tried friends. Orsena, seeing 
the distracted state of the Countess, took possession of the 
situation. The search was recommenced and this time 
extended to the lake, where the over-turned boat with its 
wrecked sail was floating forlornly. There was no shadow 
of reason to doubt its evidence, the lake was known to be 
unfathomable. The new boat had evidently misbehaved 
itself, had capsized and—expert swimmer though he was— 
both he and the man Jano must have got entangled in the 
wreckage, or hit by the fallen sail, and sank. 

Orsena rushed to the Castle heartbroken. His was the 
task of breaking the news to the Countess and the household, 
dispatching a messenger to the Prince, and dispersing the 
assembled guests. 

So the sun set on the thirty-first birthday of Prince 
d’Arenzano, and the first anniversary of Raphael’s dishonor. 

The madman who sat in the place of Savola had struck his 
second blow at the House of Arenzano. 


206 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


III 

It was in the autumn of 1834 that King Frederick 
succumbed to an attack of pneumonia. 

He left one child only, Louise Theresa Sophie, aged 
twelve, heir to a name dimmed by private and public 
scandals, and to a throne none too securely planted, and a 
Constitution left in a state of flux. 

He also left the Regency of his kingdom in the hands of 
Paul d’Arenzano. Perfectly aware that under the circum¬ 
stances, no personal entreaties would induce the Prince to 
undertake the responsibilities entailed, King Frederick 
achieved the one piece of personal statecraft of his reign. He 
allowed the Prince to believe the Duke of Florence was to 
be Regent, but in the absence of the Prince, he summoned 
both the Duke and the most powerful Ministers, and 
declared to them that by his will, which would be publicly 
read on the evening of his death, he had left Prince 
d’Arenzano Regent and Guardian of his daughter in absolute 
trust and belief in the Prince’s ability to protect her and her 
kingdom until she was of age to rule it herself. 

“Which will be—never!” he added, with a very little 
smile, and went on feebly: 

“You are all good men, I know, but there’s only one man 
who can rule Romanzia and he’s ruled it for years—so you’d 
better make him continue.” 

Two days later the King died. 

The Duke of Florence and the other Ministers were only 
too eager to follow the late king’s will. The honor of being 
Regent was at best an uneasy honor for a strong man, and a 
superlatively uncomfortable one for a weak man. Those 
who constituted the Government were by now picked men, 
and however they feared the now silent morose man who 
actually ruled they had no doubt of his ability. Moreover, 


DISASTER AND AGAIN DISASTER 


207 


the populace adored him still, and those were not days for 
an insecure throne to ignore the Vox popnli. 

They urged those and a vast collection of reasons on the 
angry man who at first would hear nothing of their devices 
or the late King’s will. The latter had been read to the 
people within two hours of his death, as he had ordered, 
and it practically shackled the Prince. To refuse meant a 
public upheaval. In the end he consented, and took up the 
heavy burden with grim defiance of certain scandalized 
Embassies who were not inclined to forget his peculiar 
position in respect to his brother’s miserable story. 

Thus began the second great period of Paul d’Arenzano’s 
life. A period during which he raised his country to the 
status of a second class Power in Europe, established the 
Constitution on a firm basis, initiated the most enlightened 
franchise of those days, and laid the foundations of a 
generous educational system. There are few who dare 
criticize adversely the public work he achieved during those 
years. It was sufficient to redound to the credit of any man 
whose private interests and intimate life were of a negligible 
quality; but when one considers how through all his public 
labors the Prince was harassed and broken by domestic 
catastrophes, with the care of his own small Principality, 
the guardianship of an extremely annoying little girl, in 
addition to the care of his own youngest brother—one is 
lost in bewilderment that one man could find strength to 
shoulder so weighty a burden. His failures, and especially 
the final failure of this period, were the results not of 
incompetence but of temperament and uncontrollable 
circumstances, one and all to be nobly retrieved at a still 
later day. 

The difficulty that the period presents to the chronicler of 
the Prince’s life is that, while masses of records and political 
material are forthcoming, private records seem to have been 


208 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


lost, or non-existent. Henry Carfax, after one more year's 
desultory intercourse with Damien, drops out of sight; 
correspondence with Leslie Thornton ceases; the poor little 
Countess Eunice only survived the loss of her husband six 
months; and the Duchess of Alquarto ceased to correspond 
with Madame DeLille for some unknown reason, and 
occupied herself entirely with her estate, her son, and the 
memory of a man who never really existed save in her too 
romantic and idealistic mind. 

Cellino, Father Pierre, and at one point Thornton again, 
are the only available authorities, with one remarkable 
exception, and that is the little Queen herself, whose naive 
impressions of her Regent and guardian form the most 
human document existing. 

For the purposes of a narrative the Diary must be divided 
into parts, and supplemented by such information as can 
be collected from the above mentioned sources. 

The Diary is written in a series of small brown-covered 
books, the earlier portions in a straggling childish hand. It 
is a notable fact that Queen Theresa was never alluded to— 
save in State documents—as anything but “Queen Tessa." 
She was a greatly misunderstood woman, and though the 
mutual enmity between her and her people in the end was 
softened, yet she had scant justice done her by her own 
country, and twice over, at least, she owed her throne as 
well as her life to the Prince, who was her Regent, her 
guardian, her friend, and finally—after vast struggles—her 
husband. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

THE DIARY OP QUEEN TESSA 

1834 TO 1836 

O CTOBER 10th: Madame Zelli keeps a diary. I 
have seen her writing in it. I think I will do the 
same. When I am old it will be valuable. That is what 
Madame Zelli says. 

“I begin now. I am twelve years old and the King, who 
was my father, is dead. So I am Queen. My mother is 
dead too. She went to live at Rivo last year and my father 
and I lived here in Cardozza. It was very dull after Mamma 
and Count Raphael went away. I liked Count Raphael. He 
was Mamma's Equerry and he used to give me chocolates 
and tell me stories, and both Mamma and he used to give 
me chocolates and tell me stories, and both Mamma and I 
were much annoyed when he married. I had always meant 
to marry him myself when I grew up, but he seems to be 
gone too, and I am never allowed to talk of him. Prince 
d'Arenzano and Father came in to see me one day while I 
was putting some rose-leaves into a box, and the Prince said: 
'What a lovely box, Princess.' And I told him that Count 
Raphael had given it to me and it was my best one. They 
went away, and Madame Zelli told me I must never mention 

209 


210 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Count Raphael at all, never to Father or Prince d’Arenzano; 
she said they had quarrelled, and that Count Raphael was 
not a good man. I cried and said he was, and that Mamma 
liked him. I wonder what it will be like to be a Queen, and 
when I may have new dresses and if they will be long. In 
history there is always a Regent when the Queen is too 
young to reign. I suppose I am. I am going for a drive 
today. All the carriages are black, so are my dresses. I do 
not like black things. 

“October 14th. 

“I am to have a Regent. He is Prince d’Arenzano. I do 
not know if I am glad. He is very beautiful to look at and 
very clever and I like clever people; but he makes people do 
what he says and I hope he won’t tell me to do anything. 
Count Raphael (I can talk about him in my diary) used to 
say that everyone had to do' what Paul (that is the Prince’s 
name) told them. I used to feel sorry for Max. Prince 
d’Arenzano came to see me this morning with the Duke di 
Florence, and he called me ‘Your Majesty,’ and bowed to 
me, which was nice. The Duke told me that the Prince was 
to be my Regent and he seemed to think it was very kind of 
him to be it, but I should think it was a great thing to be 
my Regent! The Prince seemed very grave and sad, 
not all sparkly as he used to be. I suppose that is partly 
because my father has died and partly because he goes on 
being sad about Count Raphael. I wonder what he would 
do if I asked him where Count Raphael was. He could not 
tell the Queen to be quiet! He seemed kind and asked me if 
I liked my gouvernante. I told him I liked Madame Zelli 
best. He said he should see me every day, and if I wanted 
anything I must ask him. I am not to be crowned till next 
year. 

“November 30th. 

“The Regent—but I shall call him Prince Paul as I used 


THE DIARY OF QUEEN TESSA 


211 


to do—is going to be tiresome. He is sending Madame Zelli 
away. I told him I would not let her go and that, if I were 
Queen, she could not go unless I said so. And he said: 
‘Madame' (I do like being called Madame) ‘the appoint¬ 
ments of Your Majesty's household are the affair of your 
Regent.' No, I am not sure if I like him. Sometimes he 
is very nice and calls me ‘little Queen Tessa'; but when he is 
angry he calls me just ‘Tessa,' and I have to pretend not to 
notice, but sometimes he says ‘Tessa’ nicely. I do like him 
if I can make him smile but it is very difficult to do it. I can 
remember when he often smiled, and it makes him look 
beautiful. 

“January 31st. 

“Yesterday was my Coronation Day. 

“I woke quite early and I had to be ready by ten o'clock. 
I do think my dress was lovely. It was of lace cut not 
really long, and it had an over-dress of silver cloth and a big 
long mantle of crimsony-purple velvet that was dreadfully 
heavy, and I had my hair fastened with a silver band. I do 
not thnk I am really as ugly as I used to be, but I do wish I 
were as beautiful as Mamma was, and had golden hair and 
not black hair. 

“Just as I was finishing dressing, Prince Paul sent to 
know if I would receive him. I was glad, and when he came 
I could hardly wait, while he bowed to me, to ask him how 
he liked my dress. He said it was quite beautiful, and then 
he took out a case and gave me a necklace of three strings of 
pearls. He said it was his coronation gift and would I 
wear them ? I made him fasten them on. I had to wear a 
ribbon and the diamond Star of St. Francis, and a diamond 
cross hung from an enamelled chain, and three rings which 
were all too big and I feared they would slip off. I like my 
pearls best of all because they are really my own. Then 
we went down, and in the hall four Pages and Max were 


212 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


waiting and the Pages had to carry my train, and Max the 
Sword of State. He looked nearly as grave as the Regent, 
and I told them both they were dreadfully gloomy and 
serious, and the Prince said quite nicely: Tt is a serious 
business, my Queen, but Heaven helping me I will make 
your crown a sure and lasting reality/ He kissed my hand. 
That was when we were waiting for the carriage and no 
one else was near, because I drove last of all to the Cathedral. 
I think I do like him very much. 

“He drove with me and sat opposite, and not beside me. 
The people seemed very pleased and cheered a great deal. 
It was fine and sunny but cold. The carriage had windows 
all round so that every one could see me, and it was all pale 
blue and gold inside. The Regent told me I must keep 
bowing, and said that the people liked to feel that their 
Queen really wanted them to love her and care how they 
felt. But all the same I could see that a great deal of the 
cheering was for him. 

“In the Cathedral I sat on a great chair on a raised dais 
all alone. It was covered with a big ermine cloak and my 
four Pages stood at each corner and held a canopy over me, 
and Max stood at my left holding the Sword. It has a 
diamond hilt and must have been horrid to hold. The 
Regent had a chair on my right but not on the dais. When it 
was time for me to be crowned he led me to the altar steps 
and the Archbishop and the Cardinals put the Crown on my 
head. (It had to be made smaller for me. It has emeralds 
and diamonds all round and the Cross of St. Francis in 
front). Then one Cardinal took the Sword from Max and 
gave it to me, and the Regent led me back to my chair, and 
we stood there while the Proclamation was read, and when 
that was over everything was quiet in the Cathedral till 
we heard the noise of the guns outside. Then they sang a 
long Te Deum and Max came and knelt on one knee and 


THE DIARY OF QUEEN TESSA 


213 


took the Sword from me, and he put a velvet cushion under 
my feet; it was such a high chair I could not touch the 
floor unless I sat on the edge. I do not think anyone 
heard me but I just managed to ask him if my crown was on 
straight. Then the Archbishop preached ever such a long 
sermon right in front of me, but I don't remember what it 
was about, for I was looking at the Regent and wondering 
why he went on looking so stem and unhappy, when he 
used to be so different. Just as I was getting very tired of it 
all, I saw a lady with her coronet all cock-eyed over one ear. 
She looked so funny that I wanted to laugh, and I tried to 
make Max see it but he wouldn't, he was looking at the 
Regent as I had done. I counted fifteen different shades of 
blue in one gallery! 

“Then came the homage-giving. The Regent came first 
and I liked this part best of all. He stood quite still for a 
moment before he moved, looking down, and then came 
and knelt at my feet and put his hands in mine—the 
Archbishop showed us how, and his hands were so cold I 
longed to warm them—and he said I was his ‘overlord,' 
which was so silly I hoped he would smile, but he didn't, and 
he swore to give me faithful and loyal service as long as he 
should live and kissed my hand. Max did the same. It is 
quite a nice feeling they belong to me in a different way 
from the others, for this is the Orense homage only. All 
the other nobles, at least the head of each house, just kissed 
my hand and swore obedience. I rather wished the Regent 
had done that! 

“When we got back to the Palace there was a big meal 
and I was at last allowed to take off the heavy cloak and 
train. The Regent sat by me and the Archbishop sat on the 
other side. The Regent made me eat but he would not let 
me drink the champagne, only the light wine I always have; 
he said there was enough to go to my head without that. 


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Still he was very kind and told me who every one was. 
Afterwards, I had to receive the Ambassadors and then my 
Council. I was so tired that I felt cross and if I had been 
eight years old instead of twelve I should have cried; but 
the Regent said: 'Courage, little Queen, go on being brave; 
it is nearly over now.’ It was five o’clock when he led me 
out on a balcony that overlooks the great Square, and there 
were a mass of people there. They cheered and shouted, 
and cried: 'Long live the Queen!’ and then suddenly, 'Long 
live our Regent!’ That was the loudest of all and he got 
quite black-looking and held up his hand in anger. But I 
caught it and held it against me and said: 'We can both live 
long, Paul (I forgot 'Prince’), let them say it, please!’ He 
kissed my hand, and they shouted more than ever. Then 
everything seemed to go round and round, and I thought I 
was falling till I found I was in the Prince’s arms, and he 
was carrying me in to the sofa, and then he sent every one 
away but Countess Rosene. 

"That is all I really remember about the Coronation, but 
it is not all or even half what is told in the papers. To¬ 
morrow I am to review the troops and I shall ride with the 
Regent. Max is to come too. I insisted on this; for a long 
time they said 'No,’ but I got my way in the end. 

"February 20th. 

"We had a dreadful time to-day. I got angry with 
Professor Carvello and flung a dictionary at him; and it 
missed him and caught the Prince, who opened the door at 
that moment. It was so funny that I could not help laugh¬ 
ing. He said in his dreadfulest voice (which, I don’t mind 
saying here, makes me a bit frightened): 'Did you mean 
that for me or the Professor, Tessa?’ I told him it was 
meant for the Professor, only he had dodged but perhaps 
he wouldn’t, if he had known who was coming in.’ He sent 
M. Carvello away and stood waiting till he had gone, and 


THE DIARY OF QUEEN TESSA 


215 


then he told me to pick up the book. Naturally, I wasn’t 
going to do that if I could help it, so I tried not to. But 
he told me again and he looked so black that I thought I had 
better, and he said as a punishment I was to sit still in a 
chair where I was for ten minutes. So of course I got up to 
go away though it was silly because a big strong man like 
that can make one stop. He made me. I shall never like 
him agan. 

“April 16th. 

“I was sure that something must have happened yester¬ 
day, because I noticed all the people about the Court talking 
in whispers and corners, and no one would explain to me 
what it was. I was not allowed to go for a drive, so I 
wandered about the Palace, and in a room where there 
wasn’t any one I found a newspaper, and in quite big letters 
there was printed: ‘Count Damien d’Arenzano charged 
with selling plans of the Riva fortifications to Foreign 
Powers. Arrest of the Count.’ 

“Of course it is a lie. People like Paul and his brothers 
don’t do things of that sort. Still it was a horrid thing to 
say, and they had arrested him. I felt very angry and 
miserable but I wouldn’t ask any one about it in case they 
should thnk I believed it. 

“To-day I had to ask, but I could not make them tell me 
anything till I told them I would do no lessons at all unless 
they did. Then Carvello told me it was true that the Count 
was arrested, and he was to be tried; and he added that they 
would never have dared to do this if the evidence had not 
been overwhelming. I asked why the Prince did not stop 
it at once, and he said the Prince would be the last man who 
could interfere, but that the thing was inexplicable. Also he 
said that it was odd such a misfortune should have again 
happened on the Prince’s birthday. 

“April 23rd. 


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“It is a week since the Prince has been to see me, but it’s 
because of the trial, not because he’s angry with me. No 
one talks of anything but the trial whether I am there or not. 
No one seems to believe it, and yet they keep saying that 
the evidence is conclusive. I suppose they mean that it 
sounds true. It makes me very angry and wretched for, 
however true it looks, it can’t be so. The Prince’s brother 
couldn’t possibly have done such a thing. It must have been 
some one who looked like the Count, only as he is such a 
beautiful young man it is difficult to think any one could 
be mistaken for him. I heard Madelaine saying to Marie 
that if he would, or could, only explain where he was and 
what he was doing on a certain day and night, it would be all 
right, but he just won’t say. And Marie said if it were 
any other of the family one would think a lady was involved, 
but no one has ever talked of him in connection with any 
woman. And then Madelaine said: 'But by all accounts he 
is just the sort of man to give up anything to shield a 
woman.’ ‘Not the honor of his name, surely,’ Marie replied. 
They moved away, and I did not hear any more; but it has 
set me thinking. I believe I have a plan! 

“April 24th. 

“I made such a beautiful plan but the Prince would not let 
me do it. I am bitterly disappointed and I shall put it all 
down here, just to prove that it is not the fault of the 
Queen if they prove poor Count Damien a traitor. 

“I remembered that the King has a last right to pardon 
any one he likes, because it has happened in history once or 
twice, and I suppose a Queen can do the same. So I thought 
why shouldn’t I pardon Count Damien for something which 
he has not done, before all those silly judges say he has done 
it. So I wrote a note to the Prince and sent it by a special 
messenger to the court, and this is what I wrote: 

“ ‘Dear Regent, 


THE DIARY OF QUEEN TESSA 


217 


“ "I am so sorry for this stupid trial for something which 
of course Count Damien never did. Will you please let me 
stop it all by exercising the prerogative of the Crown? I 
know that I can for I read it in the last history book just 
in those words. If I can do it at once they must stop the 
trial. I know it sounds as if I was pardoning hm for some- 
thing which he had done, but I don't really mean that. But 
the papers talk about 'The Crown versus Count Damien 
d’Arenzano, and if I am the Crown I don't want to be 
versus any one. I dont care about their silly evidence. 
Please let me know how to do it or do it for me, and tell 
Count Damien how sorry I am people will be so stupid, but 
they are, and the only thing to do is to stop them going on 
being stupider. 

" 'Your affectionate 

" 'Queen Tessa.' 

"I didn’t quite know how to end as I had never written to 
hm before, but it wasn't really not true to say affectionate, 
because I have left off not liking him now he has so much 
trouble. 

"And it was all no good at all! He sent me back a little 
note and in case I ever lose it I will copy it in here. 

" 'Dear little Queen, 

" 'Your Regent and friend returns you his deepest 
gratitude for your kind thought and even more for your 
brave faith in his brother. It will never be forgotten by us, 
though the way of escape you offer is not possible. Believe 
me, if it were, I would take it, but it would not clear my 
brother and it would be contrary to the laws of your 
country. But in all this sorry business the recollection of 
your desire and your belief is like a lamp in the darkness, 
and he and I will treasure it as long as we live. 

" 'I am your faithful servant and friend, 

" 'Paul Landuoc, Prince d'Arenzano.' 


218 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“It is silly to cry over things; I wish I were a boy and did 
not. Count Damien has been found guilty and is to be 
dismissed from the Army with ignominy, and exiled. 
Horrid! And no one really believes it true. 

“May 2nd. 

“The Regent has come back again, and this morning I 
heard them saying that he was trying not to be Regent any 
more because of his brother being sent away for something 
he didn’t do; and that perhaps the Duke di Florence would 
be Regent! I felt cold shivers all over me. I knew there 
was a Council in the Palace that day and the Prince was 
there, and I said nothing to any one but went away straight 
to the Prince’s apartments. There were lots of people in 
the anteroom and, though they all bowed and stood up, they 
all stared at me in a way I did not like, so I just waved my 
hand and said I had business with the Prince and walked 
right into his room. The Duke and the Prince were quite 
alone and he (I don’t mean the Duke) was leaning his head 
on his hand, and I did not like his look at all. They stared at 
me like the others and then both stood up. I don’t think 
if the Duke had not been there, that the Regent would have 
been nice at all. I sat down and told them to do the same 
as I had something important to say. I told them I had 
just heard that the Regent did not want to be Regent any 
longer, but that I would not have anyone else, so he must 
be. I was quite nice to the Duke and said I did not want 
to be rude to him, but I did not like changes and I was sure 
he would not like looking after me as I gave the Regent a 
good deal of trouble, only we had now got used to each 
other, so he must go on being Regent. I spoke as quickly as 
I could in case they should interrupt before I finished, 
which would not have been polite, but then the Regent is not 
always polite. Still, when I stopped they said nothing, but 
looked at each other, till presently the Prince said in a cold 


THE DIARY OF QUEEN TESSA 


219 


sort of voice: 'Who told Your Majesty I thought of 
resigning?’ I was not going to give Marie or Madelaine 
away, besides they had not told me, so I said it was talked of 
generally. The Prince looked at the Duke again and said: 
'You see!’ It did not seem to me there was anything to 
see except that the Prince must not resign, and I said so. 
Then the Duke got up and kissed my hand, (I wish he were 
not so fat!) and he said: 'Your Majesty very ably voices the 
desires of your Ministers, and I trust your wishes will 
accomplish what our prayers have failed to do.’ 'Her 
Majesty has no business to interfere with State affairs. It’s 
preposterous!’ put in the Regent quite angrily, but I kept 
my eye on him because often when he speaks like that he is 
going to give in. It is only no use to argue when he is icy 
cold. I just waited and so did the Duke, while he walked 
up and down. I think he wanted the Duke to go so that he 
could say what he liked to me, but the Duke couldn’t go 
unless I dismissed him and I wasn’t going to do that. At 
last the Prince flung himself into a chair again and said in 
a tired voice: 'Have it your own way. I have not a shred 
of honor left in the eyes of Europe as it is, what matters 
the rest?’ And I cried out, 'Europe doesn’t know anything 
about your honor. How can anyone else telling lies hurt 
you? The people want you and I want you, isn’t that 
enough?’ He laughed in a way I did not like and it sounded 
as if he wanted to bite some one. 'You have got your way, 
I’ve nothing left of my own to care about.’ I got up, think¬ 
ing I had better go before he could take it back but I just 
stopped to remind him of one thing. 'You’ve got Max 
anyhow!’ He gave me such a queer look I was glad to get 
away. I walked through the crowd again with my head up, 
remembering that I was the Queen and had made the Prince 
go on being Regent, and I only knew when I was right 
through them that the Duke was walking behind me, his 


220 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


fat face all smiles. I suppose he thought it best to leave 
too! The Regent came and saw me this evening and was 
very stiff and formal, and told me I was never again to 
interfere with State affairs or he would leave me without 
warning. 

“ T will not have my hand forced like this/ he declared. 
‘Your Majesty must understand as much/ 

“Just as he was going I managed to ask the one thing I 
wanted to know so badly, and that was where Count Damien 
had gone. He stopped and did not answer for a moment 
and I felt quite frightened. Then he said: ‘You have 
perhaps a right to ask and know. He has gone to South 
America. If Your Majesty really desires to help me you 
will not speak again of him or my family affairs, they are 
not calculated to assist my public duties/ 

“It sounded almost worse when he spoke than it does 
written, but I think he is just so dreadfully angry with 
everybody that he can’t be nice. Still I would rather have 
him about cross and black than the Duke, all smiles and fat 
and pillowy!” 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE CLOUD LIFTS 

^T'HE most inexplicable thing concerning the Prince in 
these days is his apparent neglect of his youngest 
brother, on whom he had once lavished so great a care and 
devotion. Max continued to live at Arenzano under the 
charge of a tutor who, whatever may have been his quali¬ 
fications when he undertook his duties, quickly lost them 
when left to the uncontrolled liberty of his life in the Castle. 
In the matter of strict routine he was possibly conscientious. 
But he also appears to have considered his duties terminated 
with the hours of study. Max, who in all his life had never 
been alone, now found himself left entirely to his own 
resources. He remains a lonely little figure, too proud to 
make friends of the faithful servants who surrounded him, 
too loyal to complain to the few approachable friends of any 
shortcomings in his brother's arrangements for him, and too 
reticent even to show his own unhappiness. 

The change from the loving comradeship of former days 
to this bleak solitude must have been a bewildering grief to 
him. That the Prince was oblivious to it affords the fullest 
measure of his shut-in misery and changed spirit. 

One must accept that his capacity for hate had for the 
221 


222 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


time closed the doors on his capacity for love. Max was 
only another harassing charge, of whom he heard little but 
complaints; for Caprille, too indolent to exercise discipline 
or inculcate obedience himself, stored up a pretty collection 
of little misdemeanors to lay before the Prince on his brief 
visits, and left his pupil to accept the sharp reprimand and 
punishment, or make excuses as he liked. It was not Max’s 
way to make excuses, and the consequence was that before 
there was time to re-establish a good relationship with his 
brother and once adored hero, the Prince would have 
returned to Cardozza and the old round began again. 

With this explanation one turns to Cellino’s diary with 
thankfulness for the first glimmer of light in the general 
darkness. 

II 

From Cellino’s Diary 
“April 15th, 1836. 

“As so often happens when we are thinking that the 
blackness will never lift, Heaven has been merciful. The 
misery of these past three years can never be adequately 
told, nor need it, but I think it can never again shut down 
on us in the same way. This is what has happened, and it 
is a grateful task to record it. 

“I had seen very little of Count Max lately, though he is 
much alone, but he invites no one’s confidence and, child 
as he is, I think no one would venture to force themselves 
on him. 

“Important business was to bring the Prince down on the 
day before his birthday, that black anniversary which none 
of us dare now remember. Count Max came to me on the 
evening before his brother was expected. He sat and talked 
of fishing, of the depleted heronry, and then suddenly said: 


THE CLOUD LIFTS 


223 


“ T wonder if the Prince will come early or late to¬ 
morrow/ 

“I confessed my inability to guess, but asked why. 

“ 'He could not be so very angry about anything on his 
birthday, could he?' 

“I could not truthfully say I thought it would make any 
difference, so I only answered that I did not think the 
Prince would like it referred to. He caught my meaning 
with surprising sharpness. 

“ 'Nothing can happen this year. There is no one left 
for it to happen to/ 

"It came over me in a flash that there was still himself 
if the black fate that stalks them was not satiated. 

"Count Max looked out of the window. 

" 'Monsieur Caprille never seems to think I might like to 
see Paul and not be scolded/ he murmured. 

"This was the nearest thing to a complaint I had ever 
heard him utter. 

"The next morning I saw him go off to the forest about 
six o’clock and wondered how he had got a holiday. 

"The Prince arrived about five in the evening, in a very 
grim mood. About six o’clock Beppo came and asked if I 
had seen his young master. I thought it well to be cautious 
and merely admitted I had not seen him since the morning. 
He told me anxiously that no one else had seen him either, 
that Monsieur Caprille had been in a bad temper all day, 
and had now complained to the Prince, who had spoken 
furiously to him, and ordered that the little Count was to be 
sent to him directly he returned. 

" 'And,’ finished Beppo, 'would to all the saints he would 
return, though I fear he will have poor welcome from His 
Highness.’ 

"I could not help feeling the same, and went several times 
to the top of the Keep to see if I could see him coming. 


224 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“It was nearly seven o’clock when Madellena (the nurse) 
came and spoke out the dreadful fear that had lay on our 
hearts. 

“ The black day is at hand!’ she cried, 'and he is all that 
is left.’ 

“I quieted her somewhat fiercely, for there is no sense in 
uttering these things. 

“A suggestion that search should be made for the child 
was angrily negatived by His Highness. 

“On my own account I sent out to the forestry yard and 
bade Martin be ready, and one or two foresters volunteered 
to brave the Prince’s wrath and go and seek. At last 
Madellena could bear it no longer. She forced her way 
straight into the Prince’s presence, and there burst out into 
hot speech, calling him cruel and heartless and faithless to 
his face, and reminding him fiercely of the promise he had 
made to his dead mother. Women are strangely brave 
beings! He heard her to the end and then, curtly, gave the 
order, to seek. 

“By that time the whole band of men were ready, and 
started before even the Great Bell, with its ominous signal, 
was echoing over the forest like a voice of doom. Father 
Pierre came down from the monastery at the sound of 
it, and I told him what had happened and how the Prince 
sat within and would not move. He thought for a 
few minutes and then said he would go and pray in the 
chapel, and as we parted, he added: Tray also Cellino, 
for there is more at stake to-night than even a child’s life. 
I think a man’s soul hangs in the balance!’ 

“They told me His Highness was now on the terrace 
and had asked for me. Yet when I joined him he asked no 
questions though he kept me with him. We walked the 
terrace to and fro in silence, times without number, and now 
and then stood still to listen. The silence of the forest and 


THE CLOUD LIFTS 


225 


the night chilled one. There was a thin little moon over the 
distant lake, making a poor path of light, but in the forest it 
would mean nothing. 'Another hour/ I thought, 'and the 
black anniversary will dawn!’ It was that which hung so 
heavy over us, crushing our hope to earth. 

"Suddenly His Highness turned and went in. I saw him 
cross the great Court and enter the Chapel. There was 
Father Pierre, and there, could he reach it, was help! I 
knew that, save for the one sad service of our dear Count 
Sylvestro's Requiem Mass, he had never crossed the 
Chapel threshold since our grief began. No, nor, if report 
spoke truly, had he sought mercy of Heaven. I remembered 
that Father Pierre had said, 'A man's soul might be at 
stake!' 

"I went out by the great entrance gates to look up the 
road. It was quite silent, only as I listened I could hear 
far away the long empty call of the seekers, a mere thread of 
sound against the roof of the night. 

"There was the shadow of the forest, the shadow of the 
Castle behind me and the shadow of the night with only 
that little crescent moon to light the void. I found myself 
praying for I know not what. The little Count—the Prince 
—it seemed all one! 

"The first band of seekers came back silently and 
heavily. I noticed that M. Caprille was amongst them. I 
heard them speak of the lake, and of dragging the shallows; 
they were even getting ready the things when a footstep was 
amongst us, just as the last clanging message of the bell 
tolled out. It was the Prince. He saw what they were at 
and turned sharply away; but not before I had seen his 
face in the light of the lanterns, and it was not the face of 
the man who had gone into the Chapel a little while back. 
I had feared him then. I could weep for him now! 

"He went off alone carrying a little lantern. I watched 


226 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


him crossing from shadow to open space for a time; then 
he was lost to sight. 

“What happened afterwards I learned from Count Max 
himself. 

“He knew himself to be in disgrace with his tutor but 
thought that if he could avoid meeting his brother till his 
birthday had actually come, he might not be so angry with 
him. He played truant, meaning to get back late or even 
stay out all night, and only return before M. Caprille would 
be about, when he would have a chance of seeing the Prince 
alone. He made for the far corner beyond the lake and 
spent a happy morning and forenoon in haunts which he 
had not visited for three years, places denied to him without 
an elder brother in charge. Then he came to the Fuchira 
Pit, which is a big cup-like hollow in the woods round which 
the Barrier runs. It is a part wherein, until this very season, 
never wolf had been found. There was here a big tree 
which hung out over the Pit. It grew outside the Barrier 
but projected temptingly over the other side, by reason of its 
partial uprooting in a recent storm. It would have tempted 
any boy. He crept out along the trunk and was settling 
himself amongst the branches when it fell, right into the 
Pit, pinning him down under it. He could not free himself 
by any effort. He tried to dig a hole under his legs with 
his knife, but could not reach far enough. So there he lay 
and his only hope was that he would at last hear the bell 
sounding, and know they were seeking him. It was 
fortunate that the child knew nothing of the wolf-lair which 
was within half a mile of the Pit. 

“So there he lay through the dusk into the night which 
falls early, under the trees, and he tried to invent ways of 
passing the time. He built castles of beech-mast, and once 
a squirrel came so near him that he touched it. Mostly, 
he told me, he thought about Raphael, and pretended he 


THE CLOUD LIFTS 


227 


was Raphael and must not be silly and fancy he was thirsty. 
The thought of it and his quiet even little voice, as he told 
me, made my heart feel sick. The courage of the child! 
Presently he must have fallen asleep or become unconscious, 
for when the seekers were nearest him he never heard them, 
and by some mischance they never went down to this 
extreme corner; still the child might have heard their calls 
had he been awake. 

“It was late when he woke suddenly, hearing something 
scuttle through the undergrowth that seemed too big for a 
fox, though he told himself it was a fox. After that, while 
he was telling me these things he was silent for a bit. 

“It was very dark and the time was very long, he said, 
but at last he heard some one calling for away, and then 
something moved quite close to him, but the call came nearer 
and nearer, and he recognized the Prince's voice, and 
answered it. Then there was the flash of a lantern, and his 
brother slid down the bank to him. 

“ ‘He just asked me if I were hurt,' Max said, ‘and then 
he pushed and pushed, and presently he moved the branch 
which held me, but at first I did not feel any different. He 
picked me up and said I was not to speak, and carried me 
away quite quietly. I wondered if he were very angry. 
When we were across the Barrier he laid me down and 
felt me all over. My ankle was broken and he tied it up. 
I tried to explain and—then I knew he wasn’t angry.’ 

“The little Count ended his story somewhat lamely but I, 
who met the Prince first as he carried back his dear burden 
in the cold dawn, understood, for I had seen tears on the 
set grey face. ‘You can ring the Found Bell,’ he said 
over his shoulder, as he went by us, and soon it rang its 
good note out over the forest just stirring in the soft light. 
When the child was asleep and peace reigned I saw him 
come out again and go into the forest, for had not each one 


228 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


of my young lords his own particular spot where he sought 
comfort and healing at need, in the shadows of the forest! 

“Sunrise found him at the monastery; I heard that from 
Father Pierre, who had himself returned there when the 
suspense was over. Caprille left at noon. I do not know 
what passed, but if harsh words were uttered they were the 
only harsh ones that passed the Prince's lips that day. 

“His Highness told me that night that when the Count 
was recovered, he would go- to Cardozza with him. 

“So I shall lose all my young Counts but it is the right 
thing. He seemed to know the selfish regret in my heart, 
for he put his hand on my shoulder in the old way, and said: 

“ T shall be leaving more and more in your hands, 
Cellino, and more power too, for I do not want my visits 
here to be all work as they have been.' 

“Sunday. 

“The Prince attended High Mass to-day, and a special 
Thanksgiving was offered for undeserved mercies." 

III 

The Prince returned to the capital and there is nothing 
to denote that his secretaries or servants found appreciable 
change in their exacting master. Yet it is only reasonable to 
conclude that their service was a little easier or a little less 
fearsome. Nor does the diary of the Queen show any 
radical alteration in life. The Prince remained a busy, over¬ 
worked man, irritable and prone to violent language which, 
however, distressed his fellow-workers less than the savage 
remoteness of the worst days. 

IV 

The Diary of Queen Tessa (continued) 

“April 30th. 

“I had not seen the Prince for some days till this morning. 


THE CLOUD LIFTS 


229 


I heard he was at Arenzano. When he came he did not 
stay long. I thought he looked different somehow, but I 
can’t say in what way. I asked him if I might have Alicia 
Rutzen to stay with me again, and he said ‘No’. It is very 
unkind of him, he can’t know how dull I am. 

“The weather is dreadful again. Wet and cold. There 
is nothing to do. Marie is on a visit and I don’t really like 
Madelaine. I want Alicia. When the Regent insisted that 
she should go in March, he would give me no reason except 
that she was not of sufficient ‘birth’ to be a lady-in-waiting, 
and he could not have her staying indefinitely at the Court 
in no capacity whatever. The Duchess was ever so pleased. 
She hates the Rutzens and thinks them quite ‘bourgeois,’ but 
I like them ever so much and I love going to their house, 
which I was told I mustn’t do. They are very rich and have 
everything pretty and bright. I do think the Regent unkind. 

“May 2nd. 

“I met Alicia Rutzen to-day and I’ve been to see her. 
Why shouldn’t I do what I like sometimes ? 

“I was feeling dreadfully depressed this afternoon and I 
told Madelaine that we would go shopping, and on the way 
home I told her I had lost my purse in a shop and asked her 
to go back for it (I had left it on purpose!), and I would 
wait at the Ormorno Arcade and listen to the music till she 
came. But when I got to the Ormorno I got out and sent 
the carriage away, saying I would walk home with the 
Countess. As soon as it drove off, I ran round to the 
Rutzens. It was nice to hear people laughing again and 
being gay. I stayed till six and then Reny Rutzen and his 
sister brought me back. 

“Madelaine was having hysterics! Luckily they had not 
told the Prince, so when I had changed my things and put 
on a really nice frock, I went down and asked to see him, for 
I knew he did not leave the Palace till late. I told him where 


230 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


I had been, and I felt horribly frightened—with reason! He 
was most dreadfully—not angry but nasty! He said the 
Duchess had better go out with me in future. After a bit I 
interrupted him and said that being a Queen wasn’t much 
fun. It seemed to mean having all the nice things knocked 
out of life, and that if I didn’t sometimes hear people laugh 
I should forget how to do it! He was quiet for a long 
while, and presently he said in quite a different voice that 
he was afraid he had forgotten many things he ought to 
remember, and I must forgive him. One thing was that 
laughter was my right, and he asked me lots of questions 
as to whom I liked in the Court, and whom I didn’t like; and 
in the end he said he would see that I had someone younger 
about me. 

“ ‘Someone should have told me, little Queen,’ he said 
with a sigh. T didn’t mean to neglect you.’ Then I sat 
down on the rug and coaxed him a little as one can some¬ 
times, and presently he smiled. It is quite a long time since 
I saw him smile like that, really nicely. Reny Rutzen is 
only a silly boy after all!” 

For some time the diary contains nothing of special inter¬ 
est. There are hints of Court intrigues, of various bids 
for the Queen’s favor, but she seems to hove retained her 
independence of mind and made no intimate friends. The 
Rutzens’ name is not mentioned, so one supposes youthful 
companionship was sought in other quarters. The Regent 
continues to rise or fall in her favor according to his 
pliability to her moods and desires. Not an easy young 
lady to control, one gathers. It is very notable that the 
young Count Max was kept from the Court. It is so marked 
a fact that it can hardly have been accidental. The Prince 
was evidently determined that the odium heaped on him for 
his retention of office should find no cause for repetition in 


THE CLOUD LIFTS 


231 


his one remaining brother. He remained at the Orense 
Palace under the immediate care of the Prince. But for 
all that, the boy’s life continued to be lonely, and the Prince’s 
humor was still sadly at the mercy of small events. 

It is not difficult to imagine that after a strenuous day’s 
work, punctuated with the petty concerns of the Palace and 
the misdoings of the troublesome Queen, the Prince had 
little time or inclination to consider with patience the 
requests and needs of Count Max. His irritability became 
more marked as his deep hatred died down, but his petulance 
was alternated with fits of sharp remorse and affection 
towards Max, which probably caused that reticent young 
spirit more embarrassment than the petulance itself. But 
Max’s loyalty to his brother grew in proportion with his 
recognition of his brother’s difficult life, so that at the age of 
sixteen we find him already a personage in the Orense 
household. If a difficult domestic question must be carried 
to the ears of the Prince, or if a servant made an over¬ 
whelming blunder, or if any of those petty troubles which 
make up the existence of most people must be reported, it 
was Count Max who was asked to broach the matter: Count 
Max who would offer the possible explanation or excuse 
and who listened quite unmoved to a stormy tirade, and 
would quietly return to his point when it died down, and 
who would finally convey a probably softened version of the 
verdict to the anxious offender. 

Little wonder that the boy was old for his age, grave and 
self-reliant, and with far too keen an appreciation of men’s 
motives for his years. He was of a very different tempera¬ 
ment from his brother, and no doubt his natural control and 
reserve were strengthened by his upbringing, and his powers 
of affection and loyalty stiffened by the test through which 
they passed. Entirely devoid of the restless ambition of his 
brother, his sole desire seems to have been to perform his 


232 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


allotted task with decency and efficiency. A man to be 
depended upon, who never failed a friend or abused an 
enemy, and who to the end of his days thoroughly deserved 
his greatest critic’s verdict of a “very perfect gentleman.” 

One gets very occasional glimpses of the boy in some 
letters of one of the Prince’s private secretaries who was 
related, one gathers, to Father Pierre, the Prince’s confessor. 
He appears to have been a man of integrity and devotion, 
and one could wish his letters had been more discursive and 
frequent. But his reticence over the internal affairs of the 
Palace Orense was generally of a praiseworthy character 
from the point of view of his employers. His correspondent 
is a lady whose relationship to him is vague. 

“You ask me,” writes Carlos Dermier, “for news of the 
little Count. He is not so very little now considering he 
attained his sixteenth year. The occasion of his birthday 
supplies an incident which may satisfy your curiosity. I 
knew it was his birthday merely because the Prince had 
commissioned me to take a box for the Opera for that even¬ 
ing for him, as he intended taking his brother as a treat. 
However, the day from a business point of view was not 
propitious, and at eight-thirty the Count came in to ask 
me if I thought his brother was returning at all that evening. 
Before I could reply, the Prince rushed in, demanding 
certain papers, and saying he must go to the Senate at once. 
The Count ventured to remind him of his previous engage¬ 
ment to him, and he received none too gentle an answer. 
Our Prince is a little hasty at times as you may have 
gathered, though most of us know that (as they say in 
England) his bark is worse than his bite! He whirled me 
off with him and when we returned at midnight he was 
handed a note which, having read, he flung down with some 
anger. 

“The Count had apparently taken his birthday treat into 


THE CLOUD LIFTS 


233 


his own hands and gone to the Opera alone. The Prince 
was mightily displeased, and when the young man returned 
he was fallen on tooth and nail. I happened to be in an 
adjoining room putting some papers away and could not 
go without betraying my presence, but I heartily wished 
myself absent or in a position to defend him. When the 
storm quieted I heard his even voice saying, T think, sir, it 
is a great mistake to have a birthday, almost as great a 
mistake as getting born !’ I give you my word, Elise, that 
a lump came into my throat. At his age such a sentiment 
was pitiful, and the more so because of his unboyish dignity. 
There was a silence and then the Prince called him back, and 
I slipped away. This week-end the Prince flung over his 
appointments recklessly and took the Count to Arenzano, 
which, I think, is more to his liking than many Operas.” 

Later in the year, about April, he writes: 

“Count Max has just gone on a visit to Count Madian’s, 
whose son is his own age. It is strange how one misses him, 
quiet as he is. I fancy the Prince already regrets letting 
him go, but it will be a good change, for it is not very lively 
here for the boy. 

“I believe if I made the attempt I could secure a political 
post, but I have decided not to think of it. For one thing 
I know the Prince would have difficulty in getting a new 
man into his ways, and fresh work might eventually move 
me out of touch with him, which would be cold comfort in 
return for possible social advantages. No, I am the Prince’s 
servant and hope to remain so. Do you blame me for lack 
of ambition? I think not. I know your own feeling 
towards the Prince too well. I think his ambitions are 
enough for both of us!” 

Carlos Dermier indeed remained with the Prince in the 
same capacity till the day of his master’s death, as we shall 
see. 


CHAPTER XX 


A BARGAIN 

O N the 14th of April, 1838, the fatal birthday of the 
Prince, he returned from his usual early ride, and in 
the ordinary routine, his chocolate and private correspond¬ 
ence were brought in together. As he turned over his letters 
he was arrested by the sight of a handwriting, long strange 
to him. 

Pie drew out the envelope, fingered it irresolutely, set it 
down and gave cursory attention to the remaining letters. 
When these were disposed of, he opened the disturbing 
missive. Dermier, seated at a distant table, noted that the 
paper shook in his hand as he drew it out. 

The letter ran: 

"Your Highness, 

"How right was Jean Jacques Rousseau when he insisted 
every man should have a trade. Not only does my training 
in dealing with sick animals earn me a living wage, but it 
brings me into touch with persons otherwise inaccessible to 
the people! Only last week a stable-man crony of mine had 
called me into consultation on a sick wolf-hound (of the 
Arenzano breed, I believe), the property of a Romanzian 
gentleman who has a hunting lodge in Zinnia. While I was 

234 


A BARGAIN 


235 


tending my patient the owner strolled out to see my opera¬ 
tions, accompanied by his friend, the Count de Riva. I 
was, however, too absorbed in my task to notice either of 
them. There being no one present but Zinnian illiterates, 
they talked freely in their own language. Riva boasts an 
intimacy between his son and the youngest scion of the 
House of Arenzano. It is arranged that they join the Guild 
together. The Regent will nominate him/ the other man 
supposed. 'No/ said Riva. 'His Highness does not favor 
the Guild greatly, but I’ve had a strong hint the boy was to 
join, so I thought you’d stand sponsor. That’s why I 
mention it.’ It was of course not the act of a gentleman to 
listen to a private conversation, but fortunately I do no come 
under that category and thought that, supposing your 
rectitude did not spurn gossip from so tainted a source, you 
might find matter of interest in the above. You will be 
pleased to hear the hound recovered. 

"Yours obediently, 

"Raphael Salvator.” 

"Raphael Salvator,” so it was signed! Yet the writing 
and the wording were without doubt those of Raphael 
d’Arenzano! 

The Prince sat staring at it. It was the only communica¬ 
tion, the only sign of his brother’s existence, he had had 
since Raphael disappeared from the little inn at Forresti, 
Sylvestro never having ventured to tell him of his solitary 
interview with Raphael in Paris. 

He had never imagined he could be so horribly shaken by 
the sight of that once dear handwriting. He had renounced 
his hate but it had not occurred to him that with the negative 
forgiveness he had so painfully achieved the old deep 
affection had stirred in what he had thought was the sleep of 
death, and at this first call awoke in the silence of its tomb. 

He tried presently to believe that it was the news the 


236 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


letter conveyed that so troubled his spirit, and immediately 
the real import of that reached his brain through the sharp 
pain of the first shock, he was moved to direct action and 
the spell was broken. 

Action was necessary and immediately necessary. Indeed, 
the cold sweat broke on his forehead at the mere thought 
that he might be too late and that his carelessness had left 
Max open to the insidious attack of the enemy. It was not 
enough to forbid Max to join. The Prince did not so 
underrate his enemy. The fact that Rivoli had remembered 
the boy’s existence and had planned to gain him, knowing 
well his nomination would be rejected by the Prince, was 
guarantee that Rivoli had not yet exhausted his hate nor his 
means of revenge. 

He must have a clear understanding with Rivoli. He 
never doubted in his heart that Raphael’s downfall, 
Sylvestro’s death and Damien’s disgrace were the work of 
this man, but the means by which they had been achieved 
was too intricate and the results too incontestable for him 
to gain any advantage by open warfare. This, however, was 
another matter; it was something to prevent, not to avenge. 

It required all his will to chain his thoughts to the day’s 
business, yet when at last he left the Palace and turned his 
face homeward, he found his decision made, his plan of 
action mapped out with ruthless clarity. 

II 

The passing years found Rivoli silently gathering power 
and watching with jealous eyes the triumphs of the great 
Minister. The wave of reform swept on, he neither opposed 
nor assisted it. He waited, he scarcely knew for what. He 
had his spies in Council Room and Palace. He watched the 
developement of the Queen and he felt he could afford to 
wait. 


A BARGAIN 


237 


The entries in the little locked book continued to be made 
and very few were erased. They were the gold which the 
miser hoarded up, over which he pored in secret. 

The Guild of St. Augustine became more and more a 
mere picturesque pose, but the number of members did not 
fall off; Rivoli saw to that, for the day would dawn when 
every member would be used to his full value, and the sum 
total of that value must mean the price of a Crown for 
Rivoli. 

Because he knew nothing of honor or loyalty himself, he 
was sufficiently a fool to doubt the honor and loyalty of the 
Regent. He believed that in the end the Crown of Romanzia 
would lie between them, and it would be for him who was 
richest in power. He was seeing to it that he was the richer 
of the two, and meanwhile he waited on circumstances. 

It was a mere chance observation that reminded him of 
the youngest d’Arenzano. To enroll him as a member of the 
Guild meant to hold a hostage which the Prince could not 
disregard, and he set about it in his usual secret way. 

Once Count Max’s name had come up for nomination to 
the Guild it would be difficult for the Prince to combat his 
acceptance without raising an open scandal, and Rivoli knew 
him to be averse to that course. He could prove nothing, so 
Rivoli argued, and accusations would be but to cast mud on 
his own name and House. Riva was one of his “assets,” 
the young Count’s friendship providential. Rivoli felt 
secure. 

He was thinking it over and the possible advantage he 
would have in the future, when a servant entered with a 
card. 

His Highness the Prince d’Arenzano desired to see him. 

Rivoli guessed instinctively the harvest would need care¬ 
ful nursing if it were to be garnered, and his fertile brain 


238 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


seized on new possibilities and fresh combinations which 
had hitherto merely floated as phantoms before his vision. 

The Prince was in the salon. He made no pretence at 
ceremonious civility. 

“It suited me to see you here. Can we talk unheard ?” he 
said bluntly. Rivoli, after a moment’s reflection, led him to 
the upstairs room where he spent most of his day. 

The Prince laid aside his cloak and, after an almost 
imperceptible pause, took the proffered chair, though to sit 
in this man’s presence was hateful to him. 

“I have come,” he said, with sharp precision that scorned 
all diplomacy, “to ask what is your price to leave my brother, 
Count Max, free—and safe?” He said the last words 
shortly. He was not there to bring accusations or to argue 
over irrefutable things. Rivoli’s desire, on the contrary, 
was to play with him, to pretend incomprehension, to drag 
from him the very accusations he could not prove. His 
desire, even his will, were so; but he failed to put it to more 
than momentary execution. 

“You are alluding to your brother’s nomination to 
membership of the Guild?” 

“Yes; I can refuse consent, of course, but I recognize the 
futility. What is your price?” 

“What will you pay?” 

“I cannot be vendor and buyer at once,” was the cold 
response. 

“I was wondering in which capacity you desired to 
figure!” It was his last bid for discussion. The Prince 
flashed out at him with a grim passion that left not a rag of 
pretence behind which he could shelter himself. 

“Listen, sir. The Guild of St. Augustine was founded 
for purposes for which it is not carried on now. I have 
reason to know that quite other concerns lie masked behind 
its activity but, because of my old oath, I have left it alone. 


A BARGAIN 


239 


Trouble and disaster have fallen on my House and I believe 
—and some day I shall know—that it lies at your door and 
your hand has wrought this destruction. The extent of my 
belief and trouble you can gauge from the fact that I am 
here and that I ask you what is your price for my brother’s 
freedom and safety.” 

Rivoli considered. A project had leaped to his mind, so 
daring and so fascinating, so complete a safeguard in an 
uncertain future, so sure a step to his own crooked ends, 
that even his cold eyes betrayed a glint of excitement. He 
leaned his chin on his hand and looked at his visitor, and the 
longer he looked the more he liked his project. 

The Prince on his part waited silently. He was not 
unreasonable, the man must have time to jot up the 
maximum value of his schemes. 

He was prepared to pay a heavy price. The one thing he 
could not face was the daily torture of knowing Max was at 
the mercy of his enemy, of living in agonizing doubt as to 
when and how the last human joy in his life would be torn 
from him. 

So they waited. 

"The Guild has no need of money.” 

The Prince shrugged his shoulders. "The Guild— 
possibly not.” 

"Nor have I. I do not spend my own income.” 

The Prince took out his watch. 

"I have no great time to spare, sir,” he said coldly, "and 
I make no other offer.” 

"You have not made one yet,” retorted Rivoli calmly. 
"As I understand, you are apprehensive that some harm 
may come to your youngest and sole remaining brother, if 
he should conform with the usages of society and join the 
Guild of St. Augustine—or—if he does not. The idea is 
fantastic, but if the Guild can profit by it, it is not for me 




240 CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 

to stand in the way. The price asked is your renewed 
pledge to the service of the Guild in the capacity of one of 
the Council of Three, who are the actual controllers of it in 
every country where it has so far penetratd.” 

He leaned back with a faint smile on his thin lips. He 
had the satisfaction of knowing he had taken his adversary 
by surprise. 

The Prince stared at him with knitted brows. 

"What do you propose to gain by that?’' he demanded, 
curtly. 

“The Guild will gain the advice and support of an able 
brain, and assistance in its foreign connections/* 

“And immunity in its national crimes !” put in the other 
swiftly. “I understand. It will be a trial of our respective 
wits to outwit each other! What security can you offer me 
that your part of the bargain will be kept ?” 

“Our affairs will be open to you—you are all-powerful in 
Romanzia—you could destroy us with a word/* 

“I doubt it at this minute. Nevertheless, that fact, in 
conjunction with a signed agreement and my own intentions, 
will do. I accept your terms.” 

Rivoli in his turn was surprised: he had expected harder 
and longer bargaining and suspicion seized him. Paul saw 
it. He looked him in the face and spoke slowly. 

“If I choose to pay a fantastic price for my brother’s 
freedom it is my own concern. I cannot carry out my task 
if I am to be harassed with cares for his safety. It is also 
my own concern if I choose to join forces with the man I 
believe to have destroyed all that was valuable to' me in the 
world. I do not pretend to pay willingly. If I followed my 
impulse, however, and destroyed the Guild root and branch, 
I should tear to pieces most of the work already done. The 
alternative is this bargain, unnatural and iniquitous from my 
point of view, but I shall adhere loyally to it so long as you 


A BARGAIN 


241 


do the same. On the day that any misfortune, in which I 
can detect other forces than the direct hand of God, falls on 
my brother the bargain between us is cancelled, and I shall 
break you if I pull down my life’s work to do it!” 

The deep passionate sincerity of the words and tone left 
even Rivoli satisfied as to the Prince’s intention, however 
little he could appreciate the motives. He made the initial 
error of taking the Prince’s ambitions as the driving force 
behind him, while his affections were really the motive 
power. 

Rivoli rose and placed pen, ink and paper on the table 
between them. 

“Do you draft the agreement or do I ?” he asked. 

“I dictate it.” 

Rivoli was a self-controlled man, but it crossed his mind 
to consider how long he could endure subjection to that 
imperious tone: nevertheless, he complied. 

The curious document thus dictated and written was one 
of the most striking pieces of evidence in the trial, and it ran 
as follows: 

“In the year 1838, April 14th, this Agreement be¬ 
tween Paul Landuoc Prince d’Arenzano, Regent of the 
Kingdom of Romanzia, and Luigi Rivoli, Doctor of 
Science, President of the Guild of St. Augustine, 
Romanzia. 

“On the part of Luigi Rivoli: To refuse for nomination 
or membership of the Guild of St. Augustine, in any 
country or under any form, the person of Count Max 
d’Arenzano; 

“To hold the person of the said Count sacred in 
mind and body and worldly interests—free from all 
obligations to, or knowledge of, the Guild of St. 
Augustine. 

“On the part of Paul d’Arenzano, Prince and Minister: 


242 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“To renew his connection with the Guild of St. 
Augustine, taking the final vows of the Inner Order, 
and to become one of the Council of Three who 
constitute the supreme authority of the Order. 

“To promote the work of social reformation for 
which the Order was founded and to propagate the 
cause of Government Reforms in all lands where the 
Guild shall penetrate, and to hold sacred the persons 
of those in authority in the Society so long as this 
Agreement holds good. 

“Signed here at 26 Dellia Street, Cardozza, in the 
presence of each other. 

“Luigi Rivoli. 

“Paul d’Arenzano.” 

This extraordinary document was not drafted with ease 
or without contention. The Prince drew up the first Clause 
without hesitation or loophole for discussion. It remains a 
clear indication as to his sole purpose in carrying through 
the transaction. Rivoli did his utmost to force a different 
construction on the words or at least treat them as a mere 
mask to deeper intentions, but the face value was there, 
plain and unmistakable, and it is hardly likely that a man as 
astute as Rivoli would have failed to force clearer language, 
had the bargain been intended to cover further ground. The 
second Clause was suggested by Rivoli himself, and con¬ 
tended for step by step; even in the final document there are 
erasures, and one can imagine that the final sentence, enforc¬ 
ing the true condition on the whole, was inserted much 
against Rivoli’s will. Still in the end the document was 
twice written and signed, each man retaining a copy. 

When they had finished, the Prince stood up. 

“I should like the name of our colleague,” he said drily. 


A BARGAIN 


243 


“He is a mere figure-head, I imagine, since you do not 
consult him.” 

“I have no doubt of his gratification,” returned Rivoli 
calmly. “He—has long wished to secure your services—” 
He paused. 

“He has long wished to secure your services—” He 
paused. 

“His name is Christian Remair.—Minister of the Interior 
in Zinnia.” 

Rivoli scored a marked triumph. Prince d’Arenzano was 
utterly dumbfounded. He had never seriously believed that 
Savola’s plans for European penetration were more than 
dreams. He knew Remair personally; he had had official 
dealings with him, and this revelation showed him as 
nothing else could have done, that he had committed himself 
to a wider matter than he had anticipated, but he allowed 
himself no second thoughts. He had forced Rivoli’s hand— 
they must now sink or swim together. He believed himself 
strong enough to control his enemy—and Max was safe!— 
But at the price of his brother’s honor! 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE RETURN OF RAPHAEL 


I 


F ROM the diary of Leslie Thornton: 

“March 8th, 1839. 

“A most extraordinary thing has happened, an event so 
distressing that I can hardly endure to consider it calmly. 
“Count Raphael is found! 

“I do not know whether the Prince ever made any great 
effort to trace him. I believe Henry Carfax came across 
him in Warsaw once but so far as we are concerned, since 
Count Sylvestro’s death Raphael has been a lost man to his 
friends. 

“I thought of him often with regret, to my surprise. Life 
seemed the poorer lacking his vitality. And I know the 
King has never been the same since the catastrophy. Only 
his marriage has linked him on to life, again and human 
interests.* 

“The King had been to Raddura for a fortnight to watch 
the manoeuvers. Two days ago the daily courier brought 
the usual letter from the Countess. Having read it, 

# King Augustine, it will be remembered, contracted a morganatic marriage with 
a young artist, a Scotch lady. She was created Countess Galamo and continued her 
artistic career with great devotion. The marriage was a very happy one. The King 
never seems to have contemplated any other alliance. 

244 



THE RETURN OF RAPHAEL 


245 


the King hastily summoned me to share his surprise 
and suspicions. The Countess stated that she was visiting 
the Public Gallery of Art, and that in a corner of a room she 
saw a man seated, who was the living model she required 
for the picture on which she is engaged. Being the Countess 
—she spoke to the man and, after some difficulty, persuaded 
him to accept the role of model. He appeared content, she 
said, till she mentioned he must come to the Palace; then 
he quite abruptly refused. But it is not easy to refuse the 
Countess anything on which she has set her heart. In the 
end she succeeded. This was the day after the King's 
departure. Her model turned up regularly and she appears 
to have succeeded in making him share her lunch—she has 
beautiful tact in these things. She declares he was not only 
ill and suffering but actually starving. Also that he is 
unmistakably a gentleman. She took him into the King’s 
private room to see a picture, and was confounded by the 
extraordinary fact that he seemed quite familiar with his 
surroundings and asked where a certain portrait had been 
placed. It had stood in the King’s room, the Countess 
knew, but she did not know it had been removed because it 
was too poignant a souvenir of Raphael d’Arenzano. At 
all events she wrote to ask the King if he could elucidate the 
mystery of her model—a gentleman suffering from some 
terrible illness, knowing English, French, Romanzian and 
Zinnian perfectly, acquainted with the Palace, in appearance 
tall, thin beyond description, grizzled hair, and a haggard 
face marked with a long scar running from brow to chin! 
Did it convey anything to the King ? 

'The King, having read this, stopped and looked at me 
and I looked at him. 

“ ‘Ill, starved—posing as a model—my God, Thornton, 
what does it mean? I’m going back to-night.’ 

"We returned to find the Countess in deep distress because 


246 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


her model had disappeared. He had not merely failed to 
turn up but the address he had given her proved fictitious! 
Her picture was unfinished and—he was so desperately ill! 
I can imagine her kind, generous heart reproaching her for 
not doing the impossible. 

“We set secret enquiries on foot at once. Mantos was 
searched through and through, and yesterday we found him, 
in a wretched lodging in the lowest part of the city. The 
King insisted on going himself, though Heaven knows it 
was no place for him to see. I waited outside. When he 
rejoined me I hurried him to the carriage, for his face was 
not for the passers-by. ‘He will accept nothing, have noth¬ 
ing, say nothing, Thornton/ moaned the King. ‘He forbids 
my telling anyone. He says he’s dying, that he’s been 
examined by the greatest doctors as a medical treasure for 
the public hospitals. They give him three weeks. He 
declared his money will last till then and that he prefers 
dirt and squalor. Oh, the very lies proclaimed him Raphael! 
Apparently he deliberately gambled away all his money. He 
owned he was glad to see me—I don’t think he lied then. 
He apologized for taking advantage of the Countess’s kind¬ 
ness. He said the temptation to see the house of a friend 
was too strong. Thornton, it will break my heart. He 
swears by our friendship I can do nothing for him but leave 
him alone to a deliberately chosen fate!’ The King was 
cruelly distressed. I gathered, however, that the poor man 
had exacted no promise as to other people’s proceedings, 
and directly I had given the King into the Countess’s keep¬ 
ing, I dispatched a letter to the Prince with a plain statement 
of facts, and now am waiting results. If the Prince does not 
send or come I shall take matters into my own hands. I 
thought of sending to the Duchess and then remembered 
hearing that her friends have taken her to a little health 
resort in Germany to recruit after some illness, and her 


THE RETURN OF RAPHAEL 


247 


little son was in Cardozza with friends. For our purpose 
she is inaccessible. In any case it is the Prince’s business.” 

Thus far Thornton conveys the story of Count Raphael’s 
reappearance on the scene, but his diary alone gives but 
inadequate significance to what followed. Further evidence 
and traditions have to be drawn upon before the full result 
of all this on the Prince can be properly appreciated. 

II 

Would the day never break! 

Would the night never come! 

Through a dirty pane of glass he could see vague glimpses 
of a cold spring sky, for away and remote from the chimney 
pots and grimy roofs. Somewhere out of this maze of 
ugliness a clean cold wind was sweeping across woods and 
hills, mountains and forests! 

Forests! 

Restlessly he turned on his pillow again for the intoler¬ 
able pain was returning. 

A wind that was cold and keen was so sweet a thing that 
it hurt to think of it. It was cold enough here. A chill 
draught laden with unclean odors swept the floor, the only 
sweeping it had. In the forest it would be gathering dead 
leaves into drifts, whirling them hither and thither, 
uncovering mosses and little green things—there the knotted 
roots of an old tree would stop them—it was not a tree, it 
was a man—immense, great with a wrath brewed in Hell, 
who mocked at him but, instead of using words stabbed him 
with looks that were as cruel as Death which would not 
come— 

The long interminable blackness of pain fell on him, and 
presently, for a short while, came oblivion. 


248 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


At the top of the narrow street a carriage stopped and two 
men alighted. The quarter raised its dull eyes from its 
squalid misery and glared at them. One man was tall 
beyond the measure of ordinary men, and behind the 
harshness of his expression there gleamed a fever of 
impatience, and some passion that seemed to scorch the 
beholder. 

“Here?” he questioned, harshly looking round. 

His companion nodded. 

“This is the street. It is better not to drive down, I will 
take you to the door and wait there.” 

The big man did not seem to hear; he strode down the 
dirty unpaved street and the children and sullen loiterers 
were for him non-existent. 

“No. 18” was one of a series of dilapidated buildings 
holding probably three times its allowance of ill-fed, half- 
clothed, ill-living humanity. The door was closed, and so 
apparently were all the windows, though the east wind 
dancing down the street would have done better service than 
a broom for the inhabitants. On the step the big man 
paused. He looked as if physical nausea or some great fear 
had clutched him. It was the other who opened the door. 

“The fourth floor. I will wait here till Your Highness 
requires me,” said the first man quietly. 

The visitor strode on up the rickety stairs, and the 
swarms of children playing there shrunk into dark corners 
and offered no unseemly jest, or dust-bin wit, to this intruder 
with the scorching eyes. 

With his hand on the door he stopped. There were beads 
of perspiration on his forehead and his face was racked 
again with something that was fear and yet was not fear. 

Then he went in. The hiding children saw him enter and 
saw him shut the door, and slipped down to tell “Mammy.” 

In the minute room with its stained pink walls and dirty 


THE RETURN OF RAPHAEL 


249 


floor there was a table, with a basin on it and by it a frag¬ 
ment of soap, a razor, and a looking-glass of absurd 
dimensions. One might really think that the occupant of 
the stuffy little room had shaved, and even washed as a last 
act before flinging himself on the poor bed where he lay, 
still dressed, and covered with what by courtesy might be 
called a blanket. The hands that gripped its edge were 
clean and the starved face on the pillow was shaven after a 
fashion, shaven and washed! 

On a rickety chair by the bed there was a glass of milk 
gone sour, and an empty medicine bottle. 

The vistor gave a stifled groan and fell on his knees by the 
bed. 

“Raphael! Raphael!” 

The cry seemed to come with such extreme of agony that 
it found vibration in the unconscious form. The faintest 
movement was made. 

He touched the cold hands and again called the same 
name. 

The sick man opened his eyes and there was a light of 
recognition but no real consciousness. 

“I thought you were never coming, Paul. Get me home. 
You must carry me back. It was a wolf—I thought you had 
forgotten me!” 

“I never knew—I never guessed—I have come to take 
you home.” 

The words were indistinct, falling over each other. The 
sick man’s eyes took a doubtful gleam. Fear sprang to them 
and he clutched at the hands that held him. 

“The wolf of Arenzano! Paul, it cursed me—It’s 
dragged me down into the pit! Ah! Who is it ?” 

Terror leaped to his eyes as recognition merged to full 
consciousness. 

Feebly, yet with a strength one could hardly have looked 


250 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


for, he fought off the hold on him and pushed back the 
embracing arms, struggling to maintain the hard biting 
anger against that piteous despair that assailed him. 

“What! You have found me out and come to see me die! 
I am not to be spared even this! Well, are you content? 
Have I anything left of which you can rob me? Let me go, 
Paul, curse you, will you not even let me die in peace? Let 
me go !” 

The other's head fell on his outstretched arms; yet he 
knew he must conquer himself or lose Raphael forever. 

The cruel weak voice went on: 

“Now you have seen, can't you go?—Go home and 
rejoice! I've paid my debt, more than paid it. Oh, my 
God! Am I to be spared nothing?” 

The last cry was wrung from him by so poignant an 
agony that the pent up pains in the ghastly little room 
seemed to merge, soar and break, and through infinitely 
black silence came Paul’s voice. 

“Raphael, you must have some mercy on me now—later 
you shall say what you will. Even if you can find no for¬ 
giveness for me, yet for the sake of what has been, you will 
come back with me—Raphael—my brother!'' 

Raphael moved uneasily. Striding towards him through 
the grey moments was that renewal of pain. Could he face 
it alone again? He remembered the hour of wild regret 
after he had so madly flung off all chance of rescue from 
another friend. Suppose Paul took him at his word and 
went, and left him forever in outer darkness? 

Mechanically his hand groped for the hand it had 
repulsed, and yet his unconquered soul fought against its 
own salvation to the end. 

“Let relationship be dead! You've a right to take a dying 
tramp home with you, if you will, Highness! It’s charity! 
Oh, don’t be a fool, Paul!” 


THE RETURN OF RAPHAEL 


251 


Then sharply he clutched his brother. 

Paul, Paul! Hold me a moment—stay anyhow till— 
it’s gone!” 

He lay there in his brother’s arms hushed to silence as his 
enemy shut down on him and, so holding him, Paul, in the 
terrible tension, thought what must be done. 

Presently, with a long sigh the clutch of the hands 
relaxed. 

Paul laid him back. 

“What is the landlady like?” he asked gruffly. 

Raphael looked round wearily. 

“Honest, I think—I paid her in advance. She brings me 
something when she remembers.” 

He made a feeble effort to drag up the thick fur-lined 
coat which was spread over him. 

“I wondered why it was so warm,” he murmured, and 
shut his eyes. 

Paul went to the door. It did not occur to him that the 
stairs were very full when he opened the door, and very 
empty as he went down. On the ground floor he opened 
another door at random and came on a domestic scene of 
some violence. Having attracted the attention of the frowsy 
woman who proved to be the landlady, reputed honest, he 
demanded of her hot water and certain things to be at once 
taken to the lodger on the fourth floor, and handed over 
more coin than she had seen in her own hand in all her 
poor life. Then he went outside. The patient watcher was 
still at the door. 

“I want a doctor, Thornton—and I want a decent room 
found at once—no, not at the Palace. And is it possible to 
find a carriage here in Zinnia which could take us to 
Cardozza without too great vibration?” 

Thornton nodded, and said: 

“I have small doubt of it. The doctor first. While he 


252 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


sees him I’ll find a room. The best man procurable will be 
Morello.” 

‘The King's physician?” 

“Yes.” 

The Prince seemed to conquer some repulsion. Morello 
would have known Raphael in the old days, but his skill 
was undeniable. 

“You can fetch Morello,” he said with an effort and went 
inside again. 

Ill 

So Count Raphael d’Arenzano returned home to die in 
the arms of the brother who had killed him, for his illness 
appears to have been attributed directly to the wound dealt 
him in the duel. One gathers that Count Max proved a most 
efficient support to the unhappy Prince at this crisis. 

Count Raphael lived about six weeks. He was buried 
at Arenzano and one of the most beautiful monuments in 
the chapel there is a recumbent figure of him. 

A strange, erring, disastrous life, yet since there were a 
few who loved him as devotedly as many feared him, there 
must have been some golden strands of virtue spun into the 
tangled web of his character. 

Requiescat in pace. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE QUEEN'S DIARY ENDS 

I 


^ITTHETHER Prince d’Arenzano made a terrible mis- 
* ^ take or not in linking himself afresh with the Guild 
of St. Augustine must ever remain a subject for controversy. 
The greatest of men are liable to errors; he could not foresee 
his failure to dominate the Inner Circle of the Guild any 
more than he could foresee to what lengths the mad enmity 
of Rivoli would carry him when in the distant future it was 
to be re-awakened from sleep. That however is a matter 
which does not come within the limits of this book. 

For the time his contract with his enemy seems to have 
served his purpose. There was little political trouble and 
a wave of prosperity carried the country towards high 
achievement. It was only needful to establish the same into 
a habit rather than a bewildering miracle to bring one half 
of the Prince's dreams to fulfillment. 

His greatest mistake at this period (1839) lies not in his 
dealings with the Guild but with a woman's soul and the 
elementary forces of human life. 

The Queen must speak for herself. 

253 


254 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


The Queen’s Diary Ends 

“March, 1839. 

“There had been some talk of my coming-out ball taking 
place after Easter, but all that is now cancelled. To-day 
the Duke di Florence came to me to say he was taking over 
some of the Regent's work for a time and trusted I would 
not hesitate to refer any question to him that I might find 
necessary. I do not think there is anything I could want to 
refer to him except why I have to, so I referred ho that; and 
he told me with much wavering and hesitation that the 
Prince's brother, Count Raphael, had returned home and 
was very ill, and that the Prince as far as possible desired to 
be free to stay with him. Tt is only for a short time if 
report speaks truly,' the Duke assured me, as if he thought 
Count Raphael would undoubtedly hasten his death if his 
living incommoded me! Well, it gave me plenty to think 
about. I remembered all that I could of what I heard years 
ago and all the things no one has said since, and it comes to 
this, that if Count Raphael is back in Cardozza the Prince 
has forgiven him, and I’m glad because I always liked him, 
and I think it will be only kind to ask after him when I am 
driving out. Of course, I don’t mind about my ball, but 
I wish sometimes I could get away and be an ordinary 
person and not a Queen—it isn’t any fun at all. 

“March 6th. 

“I did stop at the Orense Palace to-day though the 
Duchess, who was with me, nearly expired at the idea. 
'Count Raphael had stood the journey better than had been 
expected,' was all I heard; but this evening Max came to see 
me. It was quite nice to see him again. He said just that 
the Prince thanked me greatly for enquiring; it was kind of 
me but I must not do it again. He—Max—would come and 
see me each day if I liked, and tell the Regent anything I 
particularly wanted him to know. Then I asked him to tell 


THE QUEEN’S DIARY ENDS 


255 


me what had really happened. He said his brother was very 
ill indeed and Paul, hearing it, had gone and fetched him 
home. He could not live but they were glad to have him 
back. He talked for a little time and then he went away. 
He is so nice but he seems so much older than I am, and yet 
really I’m the older! I wish Count Raphael could get well. 

“April 2nd. 

“Count Raphael died last night. Max sent me word this 
morning. It seems very cruel. I think life seems cruel and 
horrible if one thinks about it at all. That is why I like the 
Rutzens. They don’t let one think and they make it all 
amusing and nice. Why should people like my Regent and 
Max have dreadful things happening to them? 

“April 3rd. 

“I hear that the Duchess of Alquarto arrived yesterday 
morning, too late to see her husband. The first letter that 
was sent to her got lost. The second did not reach her in 
time as she had just left the place where she was staying. 
My ladies were talking about it and I heard someone say: Tt 
was probably a providential loss—and a more providential 
move on the part of the Duchess.’ Well, I do not know the 
Duchess of Alquarto at all, but anyhow she belonged to 
Count Raphael and the Regent so I wasn’t going to have 
horrid things said in my rooms, and I said to the lady who 
spoke: Tt is more probable that the Duchess is at this 
moment finding Providence very cruel; I should have 
liked to see Count Raphael myself, so it stands to reason his 
wife would wish to do so.’ After that they said no more on 
the subject. 

“April 9th. 

“The Regent came to see me again today. He looked 
very sad, but all the stern hardness seems to have melted 
away. I talked all I could just to keep him. Sometimes he 
forgot to answer me and sat staring into the fire; and I 


256 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


slipped my hand into his and said: ‘It's nice to have you 
back, Regent dear.’ He didn’t push me away but held my 
hand a minute and said, T shall find plenty of occupation, 
thank God!’ and I squeezed his to show I understood, and 
went on telling him silly little things. Presently he had to 
go, and he kissed my hand and said Thank you!’ I don’t 
know why. I’d done nothing, but I wish I could. I should 
like to take him away from all the things that hurt him and 
make him forget them. 

“October 31st. 

“Thursday tomorrow and The Ball! My fancy dress 
Ball at last! I am counting the hours to it. I’ve tried on 
my dress and it’s lovely. I am going as the Empress 
Elizabeth of Zinnia and the dress is of cloth of silver 
embroidered with pinky orange roses, and a lace veil all 
sewn with diamonds and pearls, and I shall wear my own 
pearls. The Regent is going as John Theselus of Zinnia, 
who was her Regent. He’ll look splendid. I really chose 
my dress because I felt that period would suit him splendidly 
and I knew he would match me. The ballroom is to be 
hung with chains of carnations and roses, all orange, pink, 
or cream. I wish to-morrow would come. 

“November 1st. 

“It’s all over and I wish it could begin all over again! It 
was quite splendid but I do not want to remember anything 
or anyone but Paul! I call him that to myself always! It 
sounds so little to say, he was splendid but he was, he was! 
I danced first with him. We opened the Ball and I forgot 
the people and everything. There wasn’t room in my mind 
for anything but the music and my splendid Prince. I never 
guessed real dancing could be so lovely. We passed a big 
glass and just for a moment I saw someone flitting in a 
silver dress and I did not know her face at all, then I 
realized it was me! He was so kind and took such care that 


THE QUEEN’S DIARY ENDS 


257 


I should enjoy it all. He told me who I must dance with 
and who I might! We had the Rometto to open with, of 
course, but later I danced with him alone. It was hot in 
the rooms and he took me out into the orangery to get some 
air, after wrapping me in a cloak, and we talked. Now I 
come to think of it I never imagined the Regent could talk 
like that. He began by amusing me and making me laugh, 
and then he made me feel how I was enjoying myself, and 
how splendid it was to be alive, and I found myself saying 
all sorts of clever things to him . . . but it all ended far too 
soon, and when all the people had gone I walked through 
the rooms trying to think it was all beginning again. In the 
little blue drawing-room there was a fire and no lights, and 
as I sat there Paul came in . . . Somehow it was the very 
best bit of all, telling him about it. And then I suddenly 
wanted him to feel it was the best bit too, and that he should 
tell me how he enjoyed it. I made him say just how he 
thought I looked. Then I took off my cotillon favor and 
fastened it to the Order he wore, and my veil got caught in 
it and he had to undo it. I could not help looking up in his 
face and he looked down at me . . . Then quite quickly 
he turned away to the mantelpiece and lit the candles and 
said I must go to bed, play-time was over! 

“Play-time! But it wasn’t play then, it was being alive 
and I am sure he knew it. 

“November 2nd. 

“So now I am of age and am free of my Regent and can 
govern all alone if I like. How absurd! He will be First 
Minister of the Crown and President of the Council of State, 
at which he is supposed to represent my will. I don’t think 
he’ll do it at all. I asked him to make Marcus di Florence 
Minister of War or something else nice, and he wouldn’t. 
It was the first thing I had asked him so I was rather angry. 
I couldn’t even coax him to it. He thinks Marcus a silly 


258 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


boy. Reny Rutzen is to be a gentleman-in-waiting, but 
Count Spario is my chief Equerry, which is tiresome. I 
wanted Max to be an Equerry and said so, but he wouldn’t 
listen. I don’t think I shall be allowed my own way any 
more than before, but it’s even more fun trying to get it and 
I do sometimes succeed. 

‘‘February. 

“I’ve got my way this time! I’m to go on a visit to 
Arenzano. The Count and Countess Orsena will be there 
and Marie. I am so looking forward to it—more than 
anything for months, and I think Paul is a little pleased too! 

“February. Arenzano. 

“My diary is getting very irregular. It’s all nicer even 
than I expected and it’s perfectly splendid seeing Paul rule 
everyone. I don’t wonder he sometimes gets a little—well, 
‘irritable’ with us at the Palace. Here his very slightest 
word is law. That’s what I call being a King! It’s all rather 
formal, of course, and I hardly see him except in company. 
The Countess is splendid but she has no idea of any world 
outside Orense. The Prince won’t let me play cards here, 
whatever I may do at home. There was a torchlight dance 
one night in the Great Courtyard. All the foresters danced. 
It was very pretty and made my feet ache to dance too, 
especially as Max was dancing beautifully. I asked Paul if 
he did not dance too, and he said, ‘Not now.’ So I told him 
My Majesty would be greatly pleased if he would! He did. 
He danced with a fine-looking peasant girl and I wished 
I was her! It was a forest dance, a slow and rather 
dignified one, and represented ‘the waking of the forest,’ I 
was told. 

“February 19th. 

“All the people left to-day but I coaxed this out of my 
First Minister and host. I am to stay on two days more, 
‘sans ceremonie / with only the cousin, the Count and 


THE QUEEN’S DIARY ENDS 


259 


Countess and Marie. The fact is the air here is splendid and 
everyone sees how much better I am looking. 

^February 19th. 

“Since that last entry I have been having a queer time. 
Here I am still laid up and only just allowed to write. I’ll 
put down what happened because there’s no one to talk to. 
Marie is a dear but she tells Reny everything, I know. 

“Well, on the 12th, Paul and Max and I went for a ride 
by ourselves into the forest. It was lovely and I had a 
heavenly horse—poor brute! We rode across a clearing 
and there was a thickish hedge and no gate, and Max said, 
'Shall we go round ?’ And I said, 'No, it’s jumpable.’ Max 
looked at Paul, who said, 'That horse can take it all right; 
give him good rein, Madame.’ So Max gave me a lead and 
cleared it easily and just as I started I heard him shout and 
then Paul—but it was too late. My horse jumped perfectly 
but there was a bit of rough ground on the other side and 
some loose hurdles about, and he came down on them, and 
I too, and the horse hurt its back and I fell on a stake, on 
my left shoulder. I don’t know how they managed to get 
me off it, but it was Max who cut away my clothes and with 
handkerchiefs and things tied me up. Then while I lay on 
the ground and Paul bathed my face, I saw Max go up to the 
horse and he shot it. Then they talked and I felt I was 
falling, falling, falling. Presently Paul lifted me up and 
Max held me while he mounted and then between them they 
lifted me up in front of Paul, who held me in his arms and 
Max walked by the side, leading the horses. It was a long 
way—we had come miles—and I hardly knew how to bear 
the pain, but when it seemed just getting too bad for any¬ 
thing I looked up at Paul and had to pretend not to mind, 
when I saw how he cared. And then I forgot my hurt and 
just felt I had been all my life in his arms and wanted noth¬ 
ing else, not even for the pain to stop because I knew and 


260 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


know now, that he cares and that I am his and no one else’s. 
I did not mind anything after that so long as he was with me, 
and I should have behaved like a baby if he had gone. They 
wanted him to go when the doctor came, but I couldn't 
have stood it, so he stayed and knelt by me and held me, 
and that way I could pretend it didn't hurt, because I had 
to try and smile at him. I am getting all right again now 
but not allowed to use my left arm much. They are very 
kind. We have to return the day after to-morrow. I wish 
I could stay here always, I think everything would seem 
different. All sorts of things seem quite real and fine here, 
that seem only obscure in Cardozza. My Prince is not 
just a figure of speech; it is how they think of him. I can’t 
explain it to myself but I understood best last Sunday. We 
all went to High Mass and I could see Paul from where I 
sat, and it came over me with a rush that all this isn’t to him 
just a sort of thing one has to do, it’s real and means some¬ 
thing. I wished I could feel like that too, because it puts 
such a big space between us.” 

Ill 

It is easy for the reader to see to what issue events were 
trending, but the reader has the advantage over the public 
of that day, who had no knowledge of the workings of the 
mind of their young Queen. It is impossible to do more 
than surmise how far the Regent himself was aware of the 
situatiqn between himself and his Royal charge. It seems 
impossible he should have been blind to the possibilities; on 
the whole, one is inclined to think he chose to consider any 
such situation as fantastically unsuitable, something to be 
eliminated from the possible by fixed disregard of its 
existence. 

Yet great posts and Royal Crowns are but accessories to 
humanity; they do not alter fundamental human nature. 


THE QUEEN’S DIARY ENDS 


261 


The case for the Queen is at least clearly understandable. 
It is true her Regent was eighteen years her senior. In spite 
of his toil and the repeated blows of Fate, he was still in 
appearance one of the most striking-looking men in Europe. 
From childhood he seems to have figured in her precocious 
little brain as a kind of demi-god—some one who was 
stronger than even her own autocratic self. Her fits of 
childish hate and affection were determined by his attitude 
to her of “Master” or “friend.” She at least never despised 
him. He was never less to her than a hero. 

Given her life and her surroundings, it is not surprising 
that Queen Tessa, at the age of eighteen, began to fall in 
love with the one being whom she recognized as her 
superior in her narrow world. 

The case for the Prince is a different matter. He had 
already passed through the experience of a very great and 
exalted passion. He had never hampered his life with any 
meaner emotion, and his knowledge of women and their 
mental processes was elementary in the extreme. 

Still it was the Queen who fed the hidden hunger of his 
soul. She was never a beautiful woman, barely good- 
looking if one strictly analyzes her face, but she possessed 
in an amazing degree that quality of imagination which is 
more powerful than beauty itself. She was no weak 
character, and, though there was nothing masculine in her 
manner, her courage at this period was superb, both 
physically and mentally. She feared no one unless it were 
the Prince and she presented a serene indifference and scorn 
to the petty intrigues of the Court. She had indeed all the 
qualities of a great woman, and if the Prince could have 
bent his pride to face the possibilities, Queen Tessa might 
well have proved one of the most notable rulers of her 
country. But such an attitude was not possible. Even if 
outward circumstances had justified it, the tragedy of the 


262 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


past was for him an impassable barrier. Raphael’s dead 
hand barred the way so effectually that, as we shall see, his 
whole life work must crumble and dissolve, and the Queen 
herself be wreaked and broken before he could rise to the 
recognition of the supreme rights of a great love for ful¬ 
filment. 

IV 

The Queen’s diary: 

“April. 

It is a long time since my visit to Arenzano. I have seen 
very little of the Prince since. He seldom comes to talk 
about anything but business. I get so sick of it, and having 
to receive Ambassadors’ wives when I detest them! They 
still insist on talking of my marriage; the very thought of 
which sickens me. Why should I marry ? I am quite content. 
If it were necessary my First Minister would mention it 

.I wrote those words an hour ago. Would he? 

.Or wouldn’t he?. 

“Oh Paul, Paul! You must know there is only one mate 
for me in all the world. You knew it when you carried me 
home at Arenzano; you knew it on the night of my Ball 
nearly four years ago! And you want me, I know that! 
I lie and think of those wide apart moments when we have 
really lived—you and I! If I could put my crown at your 
feet for you to walk on I would, so that you could see only 
the woman and forget the crown. But I will! I never 
thought before of the crown standing between us! To me 
it has always been you who are my master—the real ruler— 
the real King! But I see now . . . Paul is too proud to 
forget the outside appearance. It’s I who must sweep it 
away. 

“They want me to marry. To marry Tor the safety and 
solidifying of the country and the ensuring of the Throne!’ 





THE QUEEN’S DIARY ENDS 


4 263 


Well I will marry the one man that can pilot the country to 
safety and honor, who is loved and adored by the people, 
who is the real ruler now in Romanzia! I will give him 
the crown that’s his already! . . . And if he were hated 
by every living soul, if he were tearing my country to 
shreds and shattering my throne, I would still marry him 
just the same—my Regent, Prince—Paul! 

****** 

“To-morrow he will come and see me as usual between 
five and six—that’s our hour. He has not missed it for 
weeks. I ought to have a fight with my pride, I suppose! 
But I have no pride. My pride is his, is in him! He will 
make it strong. It will be like being born again. All those 
beautiful things that are real to him, he will make real to 
me! Oh, I know it is in me to learn—of him; to become 
a little more fit for the great thing I am going to grasp. I 
could be 'good’—could be whatever he wants me to be—I 
will be! Those lovely moments which have come to me 
sometimes when he’s talked to me of life and work and the 
glory of it all (and only then) will become not strange, but 
part of me . . . Paul, my need of you is so great you must 
take me and drown me in your generous heart that deserves 
something so much better than I am, that it must be what 
I can be since I am yours already! . . . When I write 
again in this book, if I ever do, it will be from the threshold 
of Heaven!” 

But there were no more entries in the Queen’s Diary. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

A WOMAN ACTS 

I 

I T was a dull November evening. The air which for days 
had been heavy and stagnant seemed to be quickening 
into life. In the Royal garden the leaves that still clung to 
the trees shivered a little in premonition of coming 
destruction. There had been incessant rain for a week, the 
ground was sodden and all one touched seemed to exude 
moisture. 

The Queen stood in the window of her boudoir and looked 
out into the garden. Her pale face and dark hair, and the 
absence of color in her soft grey gown, brought her into 
painful harmony with the November day. She was quite 
alone—even her ladies-in-waiting never entered the little 
room without special permission. It was all white and 
grey, splashed here and there with strangely vivid colorings, 
grouped spasmodically with no appreciation of values. 
There was a piano of the latest pattern in the room, a pile of 
music scattered on a settee. 

She was thinking of the last entry made in her diary the 
previous evening. Her purpose was the same as when she 
wrote it, but she was aware now that she needed all her 

264 


A WOMAN ACTS 


265 


courage to carry through her intention. She drove her 
thoughts between straight walls and looked neither to right 
nor left. The grey evening was the prelude to days and 
nights of unimaginable glory for which she had hungered 
all her dreary life or the closing in of interminable autumn. 
She drew down her brows at that thought and turned from 
the window to look at the clock. These moments of waiting 
were always the longest in the whole day. 

It was in this room that she always received the Prince for 
a formal half-hour when, before leaving the Palace, he 
visited her to inform her of matters in which she was 
supposed to be interested and for which she cared not the 
snap of a finger. Occasionally she would pretend an 
enthusiasm for government and thus detain him beyond the 
allotted time. She felt he divined her fraud but he never 
charged her with it. 

She stood there waiting with her eyes on the clock. 

At last the looked-for request! 

Would Her Majesty receive His Highness Prince 
d’Arenzano? Her Majesty would. 

She felt instinctively that he was in little mood to listen 
to friendly advances but her courage not only rose to the 
occasion, it stepped beyond. The victory would be the 
greater and surer. 

She listened to his report quietly, remarked on it, and then 
stood up. The Prince rose. 

“I am not dismissing you,” she said steadily. “You have 
made your report. I in my turn have something to report— 
and say.” 

He looked at her a little suspiciously, a little surprised. 

“Shall I ring for lights?” he demanded. 

She said “No,” that she preferred the dusk. So they 
stood waiting for each other. In the silence she could almost 
hear her heart beating. 


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“Paul,” she said suddenly—she called him so at times to 
his face,—“I have something to say to you which concerns 
us both. Through these long years you have given me such 
services as no Queen ever had given her before, and the 
Queen is grateful—but to-night the Queen does not exist. I 
am myself a woman—and you yourself a man—and because 
the shadow of the Queen may be between me—and great 
happiness, the woman is going to step on it. Paul, will you 
marry me?” 

Dead silence. The heart-beats now were so audible that 
they deadened the ticking of the little clock whose golden 
Cupids chased the hours on a jewelled dial. Dead silence— 
the flames flickered and laughed and crumbled their 
generators to ashes. She wanted to stop his answering now 
—not to unsay her words but to prolong the silence, to seek 
him and find him in his innermost being—for she knew that 
he who was going to speak was but the exterior and that 
he was locking the door of his “being” behind him. 

At last he spoke. 

“May I ask Your Majesty what reason I have ever given 
to warrant such a possibility?” 

The cold brutality of it struck her like a lash. 

It was an indefensible blow—unforgivable! It shattered 
her as a woman and a Queen. It destroyed at once all her 
defences, leaving but the poor one of bitter anger behind 
which to shelter her wounded soul—anger at his falseness— 
for she knew it was false by the very deliberateness of the 
implied lie. She needed no argument or explanation. Her 
instinct leaped to comprehension. He would have none of 
her, not because he did not love her but because Europe 
would cry out at him, because a hundred falsenesses in the 
past stood between them, and all his courage fell short of 
hers when the shock of real encounter came. 

He was speaking rapidly, coldly, decisively. She found 


A WOMAN ACTS 


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herself listening with dull scorn, watching him with 
unfaltering eyes. She knew her color had not changed nor 
had she physically flinched. What was he saying? 

“I thank you very greatly for the honor you have done 
me but on consideration surely even your youth would see 
the impossibility of such a marriage—I have ever tried to 
regard myself as your faithful guardian and friend.— 
You have shared, and do share, my heart with Max.” 

There was a lie before which even he faltered. His 
voice stopped. She felt him gasp. No, he had not, he did 
not range her beside Max. He loved her, and repudiated 
her. 

Blind anger, passionate resentment of his pride surged up 
in her. She too could lie if he could. She held up her 
head. 

“There is no need to continue, Prince. I understand 
exactly. No doubt my incomplete grasp of politics and 
political necessities misled me. But I do not ask you to 
forget, but to remember. That is all—to-night.” 

She dismissed him. Outwardly, though she had failed, 
the victory was hers, for he went: and at the door paused 
and looked at her standing there in the firelight watching 
him with unfaltering eyes, a brave figure of a woman. 

If she had called to him again in the silence, he might 
have turned, but he had struck her soul unconscious in those 
fierce cruel words, which were his first mad defence against 
an enemy too dear for half measures. 

He opened the door and went out. 

The Queen stood still gazing at nothing. She must not 
lower her flag. She must crouch for protection behind her 
courage or die. Would it shelter her? 

Apparently it would. She rang the bell for lights and 
summoned a lady. 


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“We will play cards this evening,” she said, with a fierce 
weariness. “I think I am in the mood to win.” 

II 

The Prince had no rampart behind which to shelter. He 
tried anger and it failed him. He tried indignation and it 
crumpled at his touch. He tried a tolerant scorn of women 
and the very echo mocked him. He clutched at his pride 
but it was no rampart of defence; it was a broken sword in 
his hand. 

For he loved her with all the force of his long-controlled, 
pent-up nature. He wanted her more than salvation itself 
and the thing was impossible. 

What would it look like in the eyes of any decent man, let 
alone the Chancelleries of Europe ? Men would say he had 
used his unique position to gain the Crown of Romanzia for 
himself. He was not deluded. He knew even then, that 
Romanzia would welcome the alliance, that populations 
cared little for codes of conduct. It was after all to himself, 
to his own code, he stood or fell. He had only to ask his 
own verdict on another man who in his place succumbed. 
Could any love make up for a mortal blow at his own honor? 

He clung to these sufficient facts. He told himself there 
was no need to look into the black past, to take count of the 
injury dealt to the Royal House by his own brother. 

The thing was impossible. 

On one point he will still adamant. He would not look on 
her side of the question. He admitted she was young; it 
was natural her thoughts should turn to love and marriage. 
He was to blame for leaving the matter so long unsettled. 

He recognized that he had avoided the question and the 
duty. He would not see why he had avoided it. 

Perhaps he succeeded in persuading himself that she was 
but a girl and must fall in love with some one, and had no 


A WOMAN ACTS 


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better object in view than himself. As before stated, he was 
very ignorant on the subject of woman. 

But he was quite well informed on the subject—man, 
that for a man to fall short of his own code of honor, is to 
damn his soul irretrievably. If he were fighting Love he at 
least believed he was fighting for his soul's salvation. He 
loathed himself for that first blow. It had been an 
instinctive effort to snatch at safety, for there was a traitor 
within him that called for surrender, called out that a soul 
might be well lost, that there was something higher than the 
code of man’s making. The blow had been levelled at that 
—and had struck her. 

He sought consolation,—again his ignorance advised 
him,—in her calm acceptance of his refusal, her coldness 
and self-control. She was not too deeply taken in Love’s 
toils after all, not like himself netted and trapped in passion, 
torn in twain by a struggle bitter as life itself. 

So through the night he wrestled with himself, fought 
against his destiny and instinct, and won. 

Ill 

Three days later the question of the Queen’s marriage 
was again moved in the Council. It was not the first time 
the subject had cropped up; on this occasion the Regent 
seemed more disposed to give it serious attention than 
before. Possible candidates were canvassed. Matters were 
put in train. Before the New Year had taken life, there 
were three applicants for the hand of Queen Tessa of 
Romanzia:—Prince Alexis of Seria, a serious-minded 
youth of unblemished character, and whose possible claim 
to the throne of Seria was too remote to be seriously 
considered. The Grand Duke Frederick, able, ambitious, 
and restless, under whose hands Romanzia was likely to 
link her fortunes to the Central Kingdoms for good and 


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evil; he was a widower and forty-five years of age. Prince 
Karl of Hanberg, the nephew of the reigning House, 
possessed of good looks, a charming manner, no ambitions, 
and the most easy of morals. This candidate was the most 
frankly desirous of the match, and he had influence behind 
him. 

All the men were known personally to the Regent. The 
first two were men he could trust, and for whom he enter¬ 
tained a certain respect. The last he considered thoroughly 
unsuitable, and it was only after a stormy debate that the 
Council for once over-rode its President’s objections, and 
insisted on the name of Prince Karl appearing on the list 
which he was to present to the Queen. 

For the horrible mockery of it all was that it was his 
place to present such a list, his to advise and commend the 
choice, to arrange meetings, to carry through the betrothal, 
and safeguard the marriage. 

It is not greatly to be wondered at that Carlos Dermier 
records of these days: “Some return of the old difficult 
times. The Prince was unapproachable, subject to bursts of 
passion, and ready to work any one of us to a standstill.” 

On January 4th, the Prince asked for an interview with 
Her Majesty which was formally granted. The Queen 
received him in a State Apartment surrounded by her ladies. 
Madame Madelaine Loiseni wrote a careful account of it 
all to her cousin, the wife of the Romanzian Ambassador in 
Paris: 

“Her Majesty desired us to attend her at an official 
interview with the Chief Minister, informing us beforehand 
that she understood it concerned the selection of a husband 
for herself. ‘It is the advantage of a Queen that all 
responsibility in the difficult task is taken off her shoulders,’ 
she told us in the mocking manner that of late has been so 


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271 


noticeable. I believe as a point of fact she bitterly resents 
the question of her marriage being raised at all—or if raised, 
not being left to make her own selection. 

“However, at three in the afternoon we all, in our best 
silks and satins and ribbons, assembled in the Great Salon, 
in the middle of which was a table with a chair one side 
for Her Majesty, and a chair on the other for the Prince. 

“He was punctual to the minute, but it seemed to me he 
hesitated on the threshold as if surprised to see so many 
present. Her Majesty smiled and said: 

“ 'Surely you are not alarmed at my poor ladies, Prince? 
A matter already fully debated in my Council can contain 
no secret my personal friends may not share/ 

“He bowed and kissed her hand, but I vow to you her 
words seemed to hit him sorely. He said something in a 
low voice, whereupon she answered with a laugh: 

“ 'Truly I had forgotten that the gentlemen aspiring to 
the honor of my hand may have feelings of their own. 
Show me your written list, Prince, and we will allude to 
them by number, thus their delicacy cannot be offended/ 

“For a moment I fancied we were about to be treated to 
such a storm as rumor whispers of. He drew himself up to 
his great height.—Ah, Amelie, how splendid a man he is!— 
and looked the Quee'n straight in the face, but she met his 
gaze quite unmoved, and the utterly mocking smile she wore 
all the time never died away. It might have been painted 
on her face. In the end she signalled to us to retire a little. 

“The Prince laid a paper before her and spoke in a cold 
matter-of-fact voice. The touch of interior interest seemed 
wiped out and as to romance! ma foi, Amelie, there was not 
so much as would cover a coin! This was his speech as 
well as I can remember it: 

“ 'Your Majesty's Council, having Your Majesty’s and 
Your Majesty’s country’s best interest at heart, greatly 


272 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


desire that Your Majesty will consider the desirability of 
safeguarding the Realm and the Dynasty by a suitable and 
honorable marriage. And since Your Majesty’s Council 
in no way desire to unduly force an unacceptable alliance on 
Your Majesty, they venture to present for Your Majesty’s 
consideration the accompanying list of possible candidates, 
and would endeavor to meet Your Majesty’s wishes with 
regard to preparatory meetings in such a way as to leave 
Your Majesty full liberty to withdraw before negotiations 
are even opened. 

“ ‘Your Majesty’s Council desire to present their humble 
services and will ever pray that Your Majesty may make 
wise and fit choice for the ensuring of Your Majesty’s 
future happiness, and the prosperity and well-being of the 
Realm.’ 

“Having read this marvellous document in a voice that 
was utterly devoid of feeling, the Prince laid it and another 
paper on the table before the Queen, who signed to him to 
seat himself, and said lightly: 

“ ‘Well, let us see this wonderful list of circumspect 
gentlemen. Three ?’ She appeared to read them over—and 
then shook her head. 

“ ‘They are strangers to me, Prince; introduce them, 
please. Let us call them, One Two, Three, to save their 
modesty.’ 

“I noticed she continued to speak quite clearly and without 
lowering her voice, as if she would repudiate any aspect of 
the matter but the public one. Our distance was not so 
great that we could not hear her and see, and I admit our 
attention did not wander! 

“The Prince, on the other hand, spoke in a low, restrained 
voice. I had the idea he longed to box her ears—I know 
I should in his place. One could not follow his words but I 


A WOMAN ACTS 


273 


gathered that he favored the candidates in order of arrange¬ 
ment—at least, the Queen said presently: 

“ ‘Plainly you are backing Number One, sir. Run over 
his charms again, please.’ 

“His lips straightened ominously, but apparently he 
obeyed. Quite suddenly she interrupted him, and stood up. 

“ T thank you; if I ever meet your special choice, I will 
convey to him your eloquent championship. But alas! my 
fancy is otherwise engaged. Please convey to my Council, 
Prince, my thanks for their paternal kindness and consider¬ 
ation. I shall be pleased to accept Candidate Three as my 
husband and Prince Consort. There is no need to trouble 
about preliminary meetings, if the Prince himself is 
sufficiently assured that I am to his taste. I am sure on my 
part that I can look for nothing better and I leave it to you 
to make all other arrangements.’ 

“But the Prince broke out on this—fiercely and with great 
passion. 

“ ‘Madame, I beseech you, is this the spirit in which to 
meet so great a matter ?’ 

“She turned on him with a flash of answering anger, and 
it crossed my mind—but breathe this to no one, Amelie, for 
Heaven’s sake—that something unseen lay beneath all this 
play-acting, something which did not meet the eye. 

“The Queen flashed out: 

“ ‘The spirit, sir, in which I choose to meet the affair is 
not the concern of my Council, or you. I repeat I select 
Prince Karl of Hanberg. Kindly convey my desire to my 
Council who so generously allowed me a choice in the 
matter.’ 

“My dear Amelie, I vow I felt as I do when I am waiting, 
with my head in a pillow, for a thunderstorm to break! 
You could feel everyone holding their breath, and nothing 
happened at all. The Prince bowed and left the room. The 


274 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Queen, after standing a moment looking at the papers on the 
table, suddenly caught them up and tore them in half; and 
then turned to us and cried: 

“ 'Come and discuss the really important matter of my 
trousseau. We can leave the frivolous marriage prelimi¬ 
naries to the men, but the really important matter belongs 
to us women/ 

“I declared to you, Amelie, I wanted to weep though I do 
not know why. I have always considered Her Majesty a 
little hard and unnatural, but I had not expected her to be 
so utterly devoid of sentiment as this. I think that Prince 
Karl, who is reported as a charming man, will not find his 
path strewn completely with roses.” 

IV 

Prince d’Arenzano did make one more effort to save the 
Queen from the reckless course on which she had embarked, 
at least so it is surmised. Dermier mentions the fact that 
His Excellency sought an interview with her on January 
14th, and that he returned from it within the hour very 
moody and despondent. Another lady’s correspondence 
informs us that on the evening of January 14th, Her 
Majesty was in a particularly reckless mood, playing heavily 
and losing large sums, and that she talked incessantly and 
with disconcerting candor of her coming marriage, and the 
pleasant change it would make in existence. "She speaks of 
the Prince Karl as if he were an expected guest who might 
turn out amusing,” writes the lady in question, "openly nam¬ 
ing him, though I understand officially there is nothing yet 
arranged.” 

It is probable that the Queen took this method of forcing 
the hands of her Council or, rather, of the President of the 
Council. 

The Prince was most bitterly hurt and alarmed at the 


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275 


sudden turn of affairs. He seems to have considered the 
Queen’s behavior entirely indefensible and to have made no 
allowance for her injured pride as a Queen, or her desper¬ 
ate plight as a woman in love: but however he failed to 
understand her, he at least fully appreciated the unsuitability 
of Prince Karl for her husband. Weak, unstable, gay and 
irresponsible—was that a man to whom he could, with any 
confidence, entrust the difficult wayward girl, for whom he 
was still responsible? From the point of view of the country 
it was fraught with danger; from the personal point of view 
it was desperate. 

Meanwhile his relations with the Queen were difficult in 
the extreme. She did not shun him, she rather singled him 
out in public for enquiries, for advice, for instructions, as 
if actuated by the laudable intention of at last realizing her 
responsible duties, which she had hitherto been so content to 
relegate to the President of the Council, who was supposed 
to represent her on the Council of State. 

But in private she saw him not at all, despite the efforts 
he made to secure an audience or two. The few that marked 
the change in their relationship, and those who did put it 
down to mere annoyance that the Chief Minister had 
pressed her into matrimony before she herself was so 
inclined. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

A FATAL MARRIAGE 

A LMOST before the country had assimilated the idea of 
a Royal Betrothal the marriage itself was at the door. 
The arrangements for the same, either by accident or design, 
seem to have passed from the hands of the Chief Minister 
into those of the Duke of Avala. 

Just one week before the marriage Her Majesty signified 
her intention of attending a Council of State. It was the 
last Council to meet under the old order of things and, in 
any case, was likely to be a momentous one, but the 
unprecedented presence of the Queen at once raised and 
altered the entire outlook, and not a Minister was absent on 
the eventful day. 

Her Majesty, we learn, entered the Council Chamber at 
a quarter past eleven. She appeared pale, but carried her¬ 
self with dignity and was graciousness itself in her greeting 
to her Ministers. She took the Presidential Chair and the 
Prince sat on her right hand and the Duke of Avala on her 
left. There was, one gathers, a general air of restraint and 
nervousness, but the preliminary and ostensible business of 
the Meeting was carried through successfully, Her Majesty 
showing a far greater appreciation of political affairs than 

276 


A FATAL MARRIAGE 


277 


the majority of Her Council anticipated. She expressed 
her entire satisfaction as to the delegation of power to her 
future husband, and also as to the liberal income allotted to 
him. 

The business of the day concluded, Her Majesty 
expressed her thanks to the Council for its services. We are 
told her voice was very soft and charming, though the same 
recorder appears to have been lulled to no sense of security 
thereby. 

“Our marriage and Prince Karl's subsequent position as 
President of this Council must occasion a general readjust¬ 
ment of affairs. It is not Our place to dictate to you in 
these matters but it is at once Our privilege and sad duty to 
thank those who, having borne the burden of the day, will 
now be desirous to relinquish their heavy task to turn, We 
can only hope, to more congenial and personal duties. It is 
difficult to conceive Romanzia under any guidance but that 
of the Prince d’Arenzano, but to such a conception are We 
forced to come, for We must with extreme reluctance 
acknowledge the impossibility of Our offering or of his 
accepting any subordinate position in the Government of the 
country he has ruled so wisely and so long. Could honors 
and dignities be added to his already honored name, it would 
be Our greatest happiness to bestow them as poor tokens of 
great gratitude. Alas, even this inadequate return is denied 
Us for there remains no honor, Order, or distinction for Us 
to offer, or him to accept. We confess Ourselves bankrupt 
before the inestimable services he has rendered Us and 
lament Our poverty; still We entreat him to claim from Us 
any privilege, advantage or consideration which it is in the 
power of Romanzia to bestow, which would serve to con¬ 
vince him of the undying good will and the eternal esteem in 
which We hold him." 

There may have been as many as three of the Council 


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CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


prepared for this tour de force, but on the remainder it fell 
like a stupefying thunder-clap. Even his enemies had never 
reckoned on Prince d’Arenzano’s summary dismissal, while 
to his friends it was a terrifying and disastrous impossibility. 

They sat staring at each other in the dead silence that 
followed the Queen’s speech, hardly at pains to disguise 
their consternation and hardly daring to look at their leader. 
The question that lay at every man’s heart was, “How far 
was the Prince prepared for such an announcement?” Why, 
if it had been his intention to desert Romanzia, had he not 
hinted as much to his supporters? No man there could 
bring himself to believe that this thing was a far more 
overwhelming surprise to Prince d’Arenzano than to them¬ 
selves. The worst they could imagine was a secret cabal of 
which Her Majesty was made the innocent mouthpiece. 
That a woman’s mind alone, actuated by pride and love 
stricken to the dust, could have voiced and planned so cruel 
a blow would have been incredible, even had the actual 
sequence of events been known to them. 

Prince d’Arenzano made small effort to improve the 
situation. When the Queen finished speaking he duly pro¬ 
posed a vote of thanks to Her Majesty for her attendance 
and for her clear statement of her wishes, which he was sure 
would meet with approval from all concerned. He gave no 
clue as to his own mind and intention, and during the next 
week occupied himself entirely in drawing up a concise and 
masterly review of the condition and standing of Romanzia 
at home and abroad; outlining the future policy he would 
advocate, and laying special emphasis on the need of main¬ 
taining the new prosperity of the people by careful taxation, 
and rigid economy in social display. 

The wedding took place on February 27th, in the 
Cathedral of St. Vincent, and was a gorgeous ceremonial, of 


A FATAL MARRIAGE 


279 


which we read that the display of dresses and jewels sur¬ 
passed any previous pageant of the kingdom. 

Dermier writes—almost the only personal note we have 
of this significant time: 

“His Highness has all the appearance of a man exercising 
control by paralyzing certain faculties—one lives in terror 
as to what might happen should that control fail. He has 
dismissed us all. I am, forsooth, to be handed over to Count 
Max who, in spite of his youth, is to be Under Secretary for 
Foreign Affairs. The Prince said to me in his new dry, 
harsh manner: ‘You will be able to enlighten him on the 
morality of diplomatic relationship. He is still a little 
en Vair on these questions.’ One is at a loss to imagine how 
the Count can accept, or the Prince permit him to accept any 
office under a Government that has treated the Head of his 
House and the savior of Romanzia with such ingratitude ! 

“I hear rumors of deep discontent amongst the people at 
the whole proceedings.” 

Whether it originated with the Queen, with the Prince 
himself, or Avala as mouth-piece of the Guild of St. 
Augustine, there is small doubt that the retention of Count 
Max was a sop to this discontent, which was far more 
audible outside official circles than inside. 

The people were left in ignorance as to whether the 
desertion of their Idol was the result of intrigue or personal 
design. The Prince himself never opened his mouth in 
criticism, defence or explanation. He merely retired. The 
Orense Palace was partially closed with the exception of 
one wing where, for the time, Count Max was to reside. 
The Prince returned to the haunted loneliness of Arenzano, 
and no one but his personal servants followed him back to 
the exile of his own home. 


280 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


II 

The Prince’s restless spirit found no peace at Arenzano. 
The memories enshrined there were too poignant for 
endurance. Cellino is discreetly silent save on purely official 
matters. 

Count Max maintained a regular though rather one-sided 
correspondence with his brother, in which one can read an 
epitome of political events, related with a clarity and open- 
mindedness that is amazing when one considers the writer’s 
years. He made no attempts to disguise the growing gravity 
of the situation, but reported no gossip, founded or 
unfounded. 

The facts alone were enough to goad the exiled man to 
madness. Pride and sheer misery drove him from his home 
to wander about Europe. One hears of him here and there, 
—in Vienna, St. Petersburg, Rome, Paris,—a grim figure 
flitting across the stage of other men’s dramas, absorbed 
only in the mounting tragedy of his own, fiercely seeking 
distraction where none was; unapproachable with unappeas¬ 
able hunger in his heart for all that a woman’s cold cruel 
hands had taken from him. 


Ill 

In Romanzia—or one should say with more truth, in 
Cardozza—events moved swiftly. 

The marriage ceremony once celebrated, the Court pro¬ 
ceeded to embark on a new existence. Gaiety was the 
prevailing note; amusement the serious business of life. 
The Duke of Avala became the Supreme Head of the Gov¬ 
ernment, for the Prince Consort’s position on the Council 
was but an empty form. Avala represented the Reactionary 
Party. As such he must needs be in direct opposition to the 
purpose of the Guild of St. Augustine, and it is one of the 


A FATAL MARRIAGE 


281 


complicated tangles of the time to understand how—being 
what he was—he also was the tool of Rivoli. The solution 
of the puzzle lies in the personality and aims of Rivoli him¬ 
self and is outside the scope of this book. All we can do is 
to point out that the Government passed into the hands of 
the Reactionary Force, whose chief concern was to furnish 
money for the outrageous extravagances of the Court which, 
in less than six months, doubled the expenditure of any of 
the past three years. 

Events within the Court itself were equally pregnant and 
misleading. The passion for idle gossip soon expanded 
into malicious scandals. It is difficult to trace even a thread 
of truth amid all the lies and inventions that abound. What 
stands out most prominently is that from the first the Queen 
and her young husband never pretended to anything more 
than a polite tolerance of each other. 

Prince Karl’s position, under the happiest auspices, would 
not have been an easy one had he been a conscientious man 
with any idea of duty towards his adopted country. 

He chose to eradicate such difficulties by declining all 
responsibilities save that of avoiding ennuie. And no one 
worked harder for a desired end. In all matters of amuse¬ 
ment, public or private, he co-operated with the Queen in 
complete accord. 

Gossip failed to report of any dispute or bad feeling 
between them; but it is certain that Her Majesty made it 
clear to her Royal partner from the very outset that she 
would offer no impediment to whatever line of life he might 
be pleased to take, so long as he left her a corresponding 
freedom. 

The Prince appears to have had the virtue of discretion 
inasmuch as his way of life provoked more amusement than 
scandal. He was a liberal lover, but he contrived to offend 


282 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


no one. He was popular even with the people. It was the 
Queen herself who appeared to find virtue neither in discre¬ 
tion, tact, nor moderation. Correspondents of the time 
speak of her as a striking example of hereditary tendencies. 
Her audacities outdid the earlier records of her notorious 
mother. No idea was too bizarre to afford amusement, no 
whim too extravagant for gratification, and no man too 
conceited to be taken in favor. Indeed, when one reads the 
various names of those supposed to gain her favor for a 
short period and then vanished into nothingness, one is 
struck by a certain likeness in fatuous self-conceit, in lack of 
any stamina even for evil; mere inanimate props to sustain 
a false idea. That is the conclusion to which one is reduced, 
and the wonder remains that the Court and the public could 
be so flagrantly hoodwinked, or that her victims should 
have held their tongues concerning their absurd position. 

The Queen was no fool. She intended to create a certain 
impression and she chose her tools well, with skilful regard 
for her own convenience. How far Prince Karl was aware 
of her purpose or the truth, one cannot know. There are a 
few letters of his extant in which he mentions his wife with 
something of respect and even pity. 

“Her Majesty is a far more able woman than her 
Ministers imagine. I confess to admiration of her powers 
of carrying out her own designs without asking for aid or 
sympathy from any.” 

Later on he writes: 

“The Queen told the Duke (Avala) that if the Exchequer 
could not meet her demands on it, he must instantly levy 
some new tax. Between ourselves this would hardly seem 
wisdom, but it is not my business to decide what Romanzia 
can or cannot support in the way of taxation. The fete has 
to be a success, that is my concern. In truth there is so little 


A FATAL MARRIAGE 


283 


asked of me that I should be loath to fail Her Majesty in 
this matter, therefore send me, I pray you . . 

A not unlikeable young man, one gathers, though possess¬ 
ing neither stamina nor moral courage, and—for all we 
know—a possible tragedy of his own hidden beneath his 
gay careless exterior. 

Whatever may have been the popular delusion on one 
subject there was no delusion at all over the Queen's 
fantastic extravagance, nor alas! in her fierce demands to 
her Ministers to provide her with means to gratify her wild 
whims. If the Prince Consort was her left hand helper, the 
Duke of Avala, First Minister of the Crown, was her right 
hand supporter. He was as prodigal as the Queen, and in 
two years' time the burden of taxation was doubled, and the 
people groaned and cursed beneath a burden the newly 
enfranchised country could not bear with security. 

A few men of the late Government clung on in the hope 
they might stem the tide of destruction. It is curious to see 
how unanimously they turned to the one representative of 
the d'Arenzanos, Count Max. A letter of his—of an 
unusually expansive order—to his exiled brother shows very 
clearly to what straits the Patriotic Party were reduced. 

Count Max at the time was a little over tweny-three and 
Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs. 

“Dear Paul, 

“You speak of going to Rome so I am doubtful whether 
this will reach you before you leave. I could wish you were 
returning to Arenzano for a short time as there are many 
subjects on which I need your advice. 

“There is talk of increasing the Army. It is difficult to 
conceive where they would find the necessary money. At 
present pay is sadly in arrears, I hear. One hopes the idea 


284 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


will come to nothing. The Council is divided: Avala for it 
naturally, but Parva and Messurt are opposed and have a 
good following. 

“I should be glad if you can give me a resume of the 
arguments which led to our rejection of the terms offered us 
by the Turkish Government for the right of occupying the 
Island of Palmos. They were doubtless quite sound but 
seem in danger of being forgotten. A renewed attempt is 
being made, and I have a suspicion the original terms are 
translated in ‘Hard cash’ and hard cash is a commodity 
much desired by this Government. 

“I should not trouble you in the matter after your only 
too true remarks anent the absurdity of seeking advice from 
you now, but di Florence, Parva and Mondure all called on 
me yesterday informally; and Mondure, with tears in his 
eyes, entreated me to look up memoranda, or to remember 
the terms in which you put before the Council your reasons 
for rejecting any rapproachement with Turkey. Since my 
remembrance of political matters ten years ago is not very 
vivid, I would take it as a personal favor if you will save my 
pride in having to remind these good people of my immature 
years. 

“I dined at the Palace last night. His Royal Highness 
was witty and amusing as ever. I do not consider the Queen 
looking well. 

“Did I tell you there is a project in the air of Her Majesty 
replacing H. R. H. in the Council ? The latter so emphatic¬ 
ally refuses to mix himself up in politics that either Avala 
or the Queen must become President of the Council. I’m 
inclined to think Her Majesty will win the day and Parva 
has just been in to ask me to use all my power to oppose the 
Queen’s assumption of public authority, on the ground that 
if matters get too bad Avala could be crushed, but that if 
Her Majesty is directly responsible it means revolution. 


A FATAL MARRIAGE 


285 


“You profess non-interest in our domestic politics but I 
have nothing else to write about. 

“Believe me, 

“Your faithful and devoted brother, 
“Max d’Arenzano.” 

Apparently Count Max’s influence, strained to breaking- 
point, was able to achieve postponement of the suggested 
change in the Council for a time. But only for a time. The 
same situation cropped up again the following year and this 
time he failed; the breaking-point was reached and his 
retirement precipitated the catastrophe the Marquess de 
Parva had foreseen. Before that, however, a domestic affair 
had changed not only Count Max’s life, but his momentary 
relationship with his absent brother. 


CHAPTER XXV 

A CRISIS 

£4"TVEAR Paul: You have often said you wished I 

U would marry. I am now prepared to oblige you and 
sincerely hope you will hasten to send me your congratula¬ 
tions and blessing, which are all that are needed to complete 
my happiness. 

“Philippa Flaneau is the daughter of the late Virgilio 
Flaneau, a gentleman who lived on his own small property 
some five miles from Cardozza. Philippa has inherited every 
virtue from her family and added to them every charm the 
most exacting man could wish for. I hope to give you the 
rather romantic details of my courtship when we meet. 

“You are the first to hear my news. I naturally desire to 
carry with me to her mother your assurance of my 
respectability and steady character! So take pity on my 
impatience and send me your blessing by the best courier 
available! I am, 

“your devoted brother, 
“Max.” 

It must have been a shock to the Count to receive the 
following answer: 


286 


A CRISIS 


287 


“Dear Max, 

“Since I have never heard the names of the people you 
mention, the matter is hardly one on which I can offer 
congratulations as your brother, much less my approval as 
the Head of your Family. You have been somewhat 
precipitate in engaging yourself, since being my heir your 
marriage is a matter of some concern to me, and I take it as 
needful and right that you should make such an alliance as 
will increase the sorely tried honor of our House. Money 
I do not look for, but position and name I have the right to 
demand. It could certainly promote neither the lady's nor 
your happiness to contract an unrecognized marriage. 
Romance will have its way, no doubt, in youth; you can both 
console yourselves with such thoughts. But before you 
again venture into the field of matrimony, kindly let me 
know the name of the object of your desire so that you and 
she may be spared unnecessary disappointment. Since you 
say the matter has not gone farther than our three selves, 
there is not much mischief done. I am ready to shoulder 
any blame you like to throw on me. If it is possible for you 
to take a holiday, you might join me in Rome for a short 
time. 

“I am, 

“Your affectionate brother, 
“Paul d’Arenzano.” 

What Count Max thought of the letter can be judged by 
his answer and action. 

“Dear Paul, 

“Your letter causes me great distress and grievous dis¬ 
appointment. I entertained the hope that you had sufficient 
confidence in my sense of obligation to the family and 
myself to be assured I should present no one to you 


288 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


unworthy of our name and traditions. I own I might have 
announced my intention to you before speaking to the lady, 
but that could hardly have influenced my action and would, 
I fear, but have emphasized my unfortunate opposition to 
your wishes. I consider not only my affections but my 
honor engaged. Therefore, greatly as I deplore any mis¬ 
understanding with you who have been father, mother and 
brother to me, I must definitely say that I cannot renounce 
my love at command or for reasons which are, to my think¬ 
ing, inadequate. The honor of Arenzano requires no 
bolstering or support by any means other than that of 
integrity of person and high and honorable ideals, and such 
my chosen wife brings with her in abundance. I am hoping 
that longer acquaintance with the idea will have in some 
degree reconciled you to it, or at least to a fresh considera¬ 
tion of it, and I beg of you to accord me that kindly 
judgment and brotherly assistance which I have always 
received at your hands. 

“Your devoted brother, 
“Max.” 

Alas, the letter appears to have reached the Prince 
simultaneously with a report concerning the Queen which 
added fuel to the fire of bitterness that burned within him, 
and which unhappily warped for the time both his judgment 
and his affections. He would hear nothing of this unknown 
girl. He chose to think the fortunes of his House demanded 
“heroic re-establishment;” and as a man ruined financially 
may strive to market his children’s affections, so Prince 
d’Arenzano strove to force his youngest brother to some 
sufficiently brilliant worldly alliance which would serve to 
strengthen the broken power of the National Party. 

Count Max, however, would listen to no such bargaining. 
He developed suddenly all the traditional romantic deter- 


A CRISIS 


289 


mination of the d’Arenzanos in the pursuit of their love 
affairs; with or without his brother’s assent he was going 
to make Philippa Flarneau his wife, though a quarrel with 
his brother cut him to the heart. He indeed refused to 
quarrel. He wrote one more dignified but affectionate 
letter to the Prince, stating the fact that he was going to be 
married on a certain date, but since the Prince could not see 
his way to withdraw his objection to the marriage, he would, 
of course, withdraw himself from the Orense Palace, and 
should not expect his brother to continue his allowance. He 
had a small income of his own and his official salary, very 
inadequate means by measure of the scale to which he was 
accustomed, but representing in Philippa Flarneau’s eyes, 
quite an ample fortune. 

They were married very quietly at the Church of St. 
Thomas, and took up their abode in what Count Max 
considered very modest quarters. The Orense Palace was 
again closed and left in the hands of a few servants, and 
Count Max, save in his official capacity, dropped out of the 
social world into a domestic existence which seems to have 
been altogether satisfactory. 

The Court, one gathers, chose to disapprove of the 
marriage, and the Queen betrayed unexpected lack of humor 
in roundly taking the Count to task for flying in the face of 
his brother’s counsels. “Madame,” he is reported to have 
said, “I have not quarrelled with my brother but only with 
his absence from Cardozza, which makes a misunderstanding 
possible.” The Count still remained in office, however, 
though his difficulties increased each month. The National 
Party grew heart-sick and many of the leaders of it retired 
to their country houses, weary with the hopeless struggle. 
Matters were fast sliding from bad to worse. 

In the summer of 1845 the rage of the people was chiefly 
directed against a certain Mathias Carodi, a poet of quite a 


290 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


doubtful reputation who somhow had contrived to gain the 
ear of the Queen, and whose extravagant fancies in the 
way of masques, fetes, and theatrical displays emptied the 
Royal Exchequer with scandalous rapidity. The man 
inhabited a princely set of apartments in Cardozza; he was a 
born fool; the worst of his rhymes were insipid and the best 
of them indecent, yet he was perpetually at the Court, seen 
continually with the Queen, who appeared to shower favors 
on him. 

It was at this juncture of affairs that Carfax again 
appears on the scene, affording us the only glimpse we have 
of Count Max's early domestic life. 

Diary of Henry Carfax 

“June 24th, 1845; 16 Doros Street, Cardozza. 

“It is seven years since I was here, and the changes are 
too complete for me to feel at home. I was loath to quarter 
myself on Max under the circumstances but it was evident 
he would be hurt if I refused, so I am here in his very 
charming house, tended by his far more charming wife, who 
seems to me to have been born and reared especially to join 
her lot with Max. 

“I hoped to hear more particulars of the Prince’s amazing 
retirement after the Royal marriage, but he has nothing to 
say on the matter, except that his brother could not see his 
way to continue in office under the circumstances. There is 
something behind it undoubtedly but Count Max is not the 
man to divulge State secrets. I had heard no particulars of 
this pre-eminently happy marriage and was not a little 
amazed, when, speaking to my hostess of her great brother- 
in-law, she said quietly she had never met him. 

“Later on Max told me that Paul had not attended the 
wedding, which was quite quiet. ‘He does not care to come 


A CRISIS 


291 


to Cardozza,’ he said slowly, 'and he does not altogether 
approve of my marriage. He has not yet seen Philippa, 
you see/ 

"Max looks thin and careworn for his age, but has the 
same courteous manners and vivid interest in outside things 
which were his as a boy. Before his wife, at least, he never 
utters a word of the scandals of the Court, and speaks of the 
Queen with a respect no one else appears to accord her, 
either here or in Europe generally . 

"June 27th. 

"I asked Max to-day straight out what he thought of the 
rumors and talk that abound. 'One would like to be in a 
position to refute them if false/ I told him. He deliberated 
a while and then said slowly: 'If you ask if these things are 
said here as in other countries, well, they are. If you ask 
if they are true, I say frankly the extravagances of the 
Court are inconceivable, and the Government lapsing back 
into rottenness; but if you ask further, then bear in mind 
that Paul had control of Her Majesty from the age of 
twelve until she was twenty, that he considered her a fine 
character, that she showed no signs of folly or poor judg¬ 
ment while he had rule. Her few indiscretions were those 
of a generous, too confiding nature. Resolve the riddle if 
you can. For my part, she is the Queen and the woman 
Paul served for eight strenuous years, and I serve her too. 
I can’t give you my reasons for disbelieving rumor—but I do 
say Rumor lies!’ 

" 'That is enough for me,’ I returned quickly and he said, 
‘I wish it were enough for others/ 

"June 28th. 

"I’ve learned more to-day of Count Max’s position. What 
a loyal soul it is! I met Orsena. He was in Cardozza to see 
his son, Camillo, just made Captain in the Royal Guard; 
otherwise he said he avoided the palace. Incidentally I 


292 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


remarked on my surprise that Count Max did not return to 
Arenzano himself, whereupon Orsena opened his eyes. 
'Why, he won’t even set foot in the Orense Palace here till 
His Highness acknowledges his marriage. Surely you 
know, you are staying there!’ I told him I had merely 
gathered that the Prince was not favorable to the marriage, 
and he gave a short little laugh. 'They do not even 
correspond now, I believe, and our Count will not take a 
penny from him. I’m Regent down there, and my orders 
are that Count Max is to have whatever he asks for. You 
can guess how much that is since the Prince simply ignores 
his wife.’ 'Why?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who can 
tell, it’s the old bad days over again. He wanders over 
Europe. I had to meet him in Rome once—no pleasure, 
alas!’ 

" 'Why did he resign ?’ I demanded impatiently, and 
Orsena gave me an odd look. 'A good many people would 
like to know that,’ he said dryly. 'I always imagine that 
Max knows but he never says.’ I told him what he had said 
to me concerning the worst rumors. 'Yes, it’s hard to 
believe, but even harder to disbelieve. Things will be worse 
before they are better, I think. The country is heading for 
revolution. God grant he comes back in time!’ 

"He had to go one way and I another, but I carried his 
words with me. If Max has nothing but his official salary 
and his own small income even their modest establishment 
must be in excess of their means. It’s none of my business, 
however, and after all Max is his heir. But I should like 
half an hour’s talk with Paul! It is hateful to conceive of 
a Paul shackled to inactivity; will Fate never cease to 
belabor him with blows!” 

Orsena spoke rightly when he said the country was head¬ 
ing for Revolution. The events of the summer of 1845 


A CRISIS 


293 


provided a downhill course which culminated in the 
unheaval of October that year. 

As this is a personal rather than an historical survey of 
Romanzian affairs, the account given in various letters will 
convey the best picture of what happened; and such letters 
must be read always with a view to what their contents 
would mean to the man still wandering forlornly over 
Europe, foreseeing the coming deluge and impotent to avert 
it. 

The following is from a letter from the Countess Ardemil 
to her sister in Madrid: 

“Indeed, my dear Marie, you are well off where you are, 
and I hope sincerely I may be able to join you. But the 
state of things here passes knowledge. I do not think the 
foreign news sheets give the slightest idea of the real trouble. 
You, at least, know how unpopular Her Majesty is, and the 
new tax on native wine has proved the last nail. It is 
impossible to convey to you the fury of the people. Arde- 
mil” (her husband) “told me that Avala himself told Her 
Majesty that the Prince had always said it would be the 
utmost folly to levy it; whereupon she protested that the 
Prince was no longer Minister and she would govern as she 
liked. Really, Marie, I think she is mad! Carodi is detested 
more than the Queen herself, and most deservedly so, for it 
is undoubtedly he who' drags her into these wild extrava¬ 
gances like the Jewel Fete last month. It was gorgeous but, 
my dear, what it cost the Treasury! And this while the 
people are starving, for the bad harvest has told terribly, and 
what with taxes and unemployment there is no end to the 
distress. But I ramble on and tell you nothing in order. 

“As soon as it can be arranged Ardemil says I’m to 
return to Spario and stay with the children. It will be dull 
but really here there is too much anxiety. Ardemil seriously 


294 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


fears a revolt and there are small riots continually. The 
canaille —but indeed I pity them—clamor for Prince Paul, 
and C. says he’s the only physician to heal the sickness, but 
it’s not to be expected he will come. 

“To return then, here’s the situation—a detested Queen; 
a Prince Consort who is a nonentity and has about as much 
influence with Her Majesty as my Blenheim spaniel; a hated 
Chief Minister; Carodi loathed so that he dare not show 
himself in some parts of the town alone; a people crying out 
for the rights and protection so lately given them, and so 
ruthlessly trampled under foot by the Ministry. She refuses 
still to call a Parliament. This wine tax was a new ‘Order 
of the Council,’ if you please! A court which all the more 
decent people avoid and not a single man in the Government, 
with the exception of Ardemil of course, who is worth his 
salt. The last straw of all is the resignation of Count Max, 
which comes on us to-day like a thunder-clap. It is really 
the last thread of hope for all of us. The tale already goes 
round that he spoke his mind last night to the Queen, about 
the wine tax perhaps—one hears other rumors, however— 
and because she would not listen to him, he resigned—or 
had to! You know he is married—a mesalliance I fancy. 
The Prince won’t acknowledge her, but I called for all that. 
She is charming. They live in a quite small house very 
simply. When the news of the Count’s retirement reaches 
the people, Ardemil says there will be trouble . . . Sunday 
is to be a great gala at the Opera. Her Majesty’s orders to 
celebrate some birthday—report says Carodi’s! I shall go. 
It helps no one to sit at home and fret, and if Ardemil 
insists on my sending in my resignation as lady-in-waiting 
and exiles me to the country, I must see what I can while I 
can . . . 

“Wednesday. 

“Dearest Marie, this far on Friday. .1 left it to finish and 


A CRISIS 


295 


our worst forebodings were right. Heaven knows if it will 
ever reach you! Awful things have happened. On Sunday, 
on the way to the Opera, Her Majesty’s carriage was stopped 
by the mob and some one shot at her and killed—yes, killed 
—the Prince Consort! He flung himself before her just in 
time. They got back to the Palace and I don’t know what 
happened there. Ardemil wanted me to go off with the 
children at once, but I flatly refused and in the end he gave 
way, and we sent off our two treasures and the excellent 
Pruth in charge, and went up to the Palace. I pointed out 
to him that as my resignation had not been sent in, it was 
my bounden duty to go to the Queen. He said all manner 
of angry things but he could not deny the fact. We went 
on foot. Early as it was the streets were full of people 
talking and idling; shops were mostly shut, and no business 
seemed to be done where they were open. The gates of the 
Palace were closed but only the ordinary number of guards. 
Ardemil says they are clamoring for soldiers and guns, but 
that Count Max persuaded the Queen to make no show of 
opposition or fear. It appears that he and his wife were on 
their way to the Opera when the crisis came, that he sent his 
wife back in the carriage alone and hurried to the Palace, 
getting there just before the mob arrived. He harangued 
them from the entrance steps, promised them redress, and 
commended them in the name of his brother to go home. 
They listened to him—they were amenable then! It was 
quite a miracle Ardemil says. Anyhow they went away. 
Messengers were sent to every barracks to keep the men 
under arms, but it was hoped the worst was over. That was 
last night while we were packing for departure. 

“When we reached the Palace we found the most awful 
confusion, a vast number of people had already fled, and the 
only man able to keep any semblance of order was the 
Count. He took me straight up to the Queen. I asked him 


296 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


as we went where his wife was, and he set his lips and said 
he hoped she got home safely. I saw how it was with him, 
poor dear man, and murmured that his wife was safe any¬ 
where, to which he said gravely, ‘Thank you, I am hoping 
so/ Rosa de Parva, the Countess Rosene, and the Rutzen 
girl were the only ladies left, it appeared. I found Her 
Majesty walking restlessly to and fro, clad in a robe de 
chambre, and on the bed lay her toilette for the Opera all 
stained with blood where the poor Prince had fallen across 
her. She looked at me but I doubt if she knew me. I induced 
her to put on a dress, and with some difficulty found a 
black one. I thought the change might help her but she 
seemed quite oblivious to it, nor did she answer anything 
we said. Now and then Count Max came up with news and 
she roused herself to listen. Some one brought us some food, 
but would not stay to serve it. The people were ‘up’ again 
in the city we heard, rioting and plundering. The servants 
were deserting fast. Rosa went out saying something about 
packing her trunk and went. We did not see her again, and 
later on Countess Rosene came in and told Her Majesty 
that her father had sent for her to go home. The Queen 
only nodded. I went out to speak to Count Max in the 
corridor. I asked him if he would not send for the Prince, 
and he said quietly that he had sent and was just sending 
again. I went down to the great Hall with him and saw 
there were soldiers posted everywhere, almost all the Orense 
Guard. As we arrived a man rushed into the hall past the 
soldiers. He could not speak for lack of breath, but 
managed to gasp out that the mob had broken every 
window in the Duke of Avala’s palace and he'd barely 
escaped with his life; and that the people were now 
attacking Carodi’s apartments. The 41st Regiment had 
mutinied and were shut up in barracks by their officers with 
their own guns trained on them. Ardemil began saying he 




A CRISIS 


297 


must get me away, so I escaped him and ran upstairs to the 
Queen again. She looked up when I entered and said 
slowly as if she had difficulty in finding words: ‘I thought 
you had gone too; why didn’t you go?’ We sat there, 
Marie, saying nothing for the longest hour in my life, 
and then Alicia Rutzen, going to the window, cried out: 
'Look, look, there’s a man running across the Park right 
up the hill!’ The Queen got up and looked too. Marie, it 
was awful! You know the green slope from the outside 
gates to the Palace steps: well, the man had got into the 
Park somehow and was running up to the Palace, slithering 
and slipping as he ran; and outside the gates and railings 
the mob shouted and screamed, and then all of a sudden the 
railings went, and the mob were after him, and he got 
nearer and we saw it was Carodi. The Queen’s white face 
went a sort of ashy grey, and I’m certain it was anger that 
lighted her eyes. She went across to the door. T am going 
down,’ she said; and at that moment Reny Rutzen and the 
Larnac man rushed in past the Queen, and seized Alicia. 
'The place will be stormed!’ they cried, 'come away!’ The 
Queen just looked round at them and went on. Alicia did 
hesitate, Marie, but they gave her no chance and carried 
her off and wanted me to come too. I ran after the Queen 
and caught her up on the stairs. I do not know what 
happened to Alicia and the two men and have not been able 
to hear. The Hall was full of soldiers and Count Max and 
Colonel Murca were giving orders. When Count Max saw 
the Queen, however, he cried out: 'Go back, Madame, for 
God’s sake, go back!’ But she said, 'Max, Carodi is at the 
door and the people after him, let him in.’ ‘The doors must 
not be opened,’ he declared. But she put her hand on his 
arm, 'He’s a coward, Max—but don’t put his death too on 
me!’ And the Count groaned and hesitated, but nearer the 
door they must have heard him knocking and calling, for 


298 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


some one opened and he fell in, and got to his feet again 
and rushed to the Queen. Oh, Marie, I awake now at night 
remembering the terror on his face and the big cut on his 
head, and his clothes torn to rags—horrible! They tried to 
shut the door again—and then the dreadful, dreadful mad 
people rushed in and every one began fighting and flinging 
things, and a stone hit me on the head and I fell, and if 
Ardemil had not fought his way through to me, I suppose 
I should have been trampled to death! I do not know how 
he got me out of it but he did, and we are both alive . He is 
injured in his side but I trust not seriously, and my head is 
still in bandages, so I am a sight to be seen; but we are safe 
at Spario with the dear children, though it cost Ardemil 
over a hundred pounds to get out of Cardozza. 

“And I can tell you nothing of what is now happening 
there, or if the Queen is alive or dead; no one seems to know 
anything. Ardemil has returned to Cardozza in spite of my 
insisting that since we are here safe, it was flying in the face 
of Providence to return—but if only he would have taken 
me, I should not have minded!—” 

To form any picture of subsequent events we must turn 
to the account given by the Englishman George Trent and 
the various personal records obtainable. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE REVOLUTION 

I 

RIM grey silence settled down over the wrecked 
Palace with the coming of evening. The mob, having 
scattered destruction there, had surged away to new fields 
and, far over the roofs of the city to the north, clouds of 
smoke—shot with pure gold—rose to the murky sky. It 
was down there in the labyrinth of streets that the mad 
crowd fought and howled, and spent its violent emotion in 
a riot of destruction again, with hideous, senseless clamor 
born out of chaos and unreason. 

Here on the Palace hill no echo of it remained, except 
such as clung to inanimate objects. A dreary little wind 
flickered round corners and died in faint whispers in 
deserted corridors and silent rooms. On the great entrance 
steps of the Palace lay three dead soldiers and at the bottom 
of the steps, a boy in torn clothes lay in an odd crumpled 
heap. 

The door at the end of the orangery clanged to, and the 
sound echoed with startling emphasis through the silent 
spaces. The mob had not penetrated here and the statues 
and trim green trees maintained their sense of decorous 

299 


300 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


remoteness from tumult and life, except that the silence 
seemed pregnant with omen. 

The man who entered stood for a moment, unseeing, his 
strained senses just cognizant of the warning of still invis¬ 
ible, unguessed disaster. He came down the echoing length 
of corridor and steps through the swing door into a vesti¬ 
bule, a sort of salle d’cirmes, where he again stopped to listen. 
There was no sentry here as there should have been, only the 
same silence so laden with echoes and warning; and there, 
beyond the next door, lay a dead man—a footman. He saw 
an overturned chair and a great blue vase in splinters on the 
marble floor. He hung on his steps no more, but swept on 
through another vestibule, down long interminable passages 
and corridors as one driven by fierce and unsupportable 
dread, even by demoralizing fear. Then he came into the 
Great Hall—into a scene that clamored of what had been. 

Torn and rent tapestries, a great picture prone on the 
floor; further on, a piteous fallen Venus with broken white 
limbs, horribly suggestive in the grey fading light; and up 
the stairs dead men in ugly uncouth positions. The big door 
stood open, and over the white steps and crimson carpet 
were the marks of innumerable heavy muddy feet. Here 
and there on the marble floor were bare footprints and dull 
stains—and near a pillar where lay a dead body and a stain, 
that was not dull. The meaning of it all raced on him with 
incalculable swiftness, rushed up, drowning his reason, 
surging over the last edges of self-control. There was a 
closed door opposite him. It led to some small anteroom and 
he would have pushed it open by the mere impetus of haste, 
but found it locked. His strength and his need made small 
matter of such material difficulties. His onslaught burst it 
open. The room was untouched. It was a small room 
where of old, Pages sat waiting; but on the floor now was 
something covered with a silken flag—something dimly 


THE REVOLUTION 


301 


outlined. He forced himself to lift the covering. It was 
the Prince Consort! There was an untended cut on his 
forehead, and on his breast a stain. Some one had decently 
composed the dead figure but that was all. 

For a moment he stood looking down; to his distraught 
mind there seemed mockery and accusation in the white 
face. 

Then panic caught him again. With a queer choking cry 
he rushed from the room up the staircase, stumbling over 
the bodies of dead men, blundering into rooms strewn with 
wreckage and broken glass, darting through smaller 
untouched rooms, short cuts to his goal but leading to fresh 
evidence of the route the hurricane had taken; he hurried on 
to a suite of rooms surely remote from that awful path of 
destruction; and here at the very entrance a door was open 
swaying to and fro in some draught—within, wreckage— 
wilder, madder, more senseless still! 

It was a big room; the canopied silk-hung bed, torn 
curtains, rent coverlet and sheets, were but items in the 
awful chaos of the whole. For it was here the fury of the 
hurricane had found its heart, recoiled on itself, and broken 
back into insensate rage with mere material things. He saw 
barely anything but stood swaying, staring at another man 
standing by an open bureau that stood near the window and 
opposite the swinging door. In the dull light he was only 
discernible as a stained, untidy figure with a roughly 
bandaged head and shoulder. He had been tying up some 
papers, sorting them with the aid of the arm that should 
have been in the empty sling, absorbed in his lonely task in 
that deserted place, till the sound of a footstep echoed loudly. 
He sprang round at its approach, thrusting the papers inside 
his coat, and his right hand gripped his revolver. His grey, 
worn face flashed into energy again at the emergency. 

“Hands up!” His voice, the one living sound the other 


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had heard in all that vast waste of silence, flung itself against 
the echo, but the advancing man neither stopped nor put 
up his hands. 

“Max!” 

Instantaneously with his rush forward rather than with 
his cry a shot rang out, whizzing by his ear. The wind of 
it brushed his dulled wits into utterance, but the shot itself— 
that near rush of Death’s wing—meant nothing to him. 

“Where is she? Where is she, Max?” 

The fierce passion of the cry would have its answer even 
from the staring, wondering man leaning against the wall 
gazing strangely at him. 

“She’s safe—for the moment. So it’s you!—” His voice 
trailed off. “I nearly shot you.” He looked stupidly at the 
revolver. 

“But where is she?” 

“Near here. I’ll take you directly—mind my shoulder, 
Paul, it’s rather smashed. I came back for these.” He 
touched the papers showing under his coat. “There was a 
chance these might be found—and so I came.” 

He stared at his brother stupidly, but he hardly seemed to 
listen. 

“Are you sure she isn’t hurt? You are not keeping it 
from me, are you? Good God, if you’ve let her get hurt! 
Max!” 

For Max suddenly fell back against the wall, covering his 
face and sobbing hysterically. The calm, self-possessed 
Max, whose steady nerves were broken at last by the long 
forty-eight hours of intense strain and overwhelming 
responsibility. 

Paul took him by the shoulder (the uninjured one this 
time) and tried to turn him, and shook him. 

“Max, pull yourself together. Is it a time to behave like 


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an hysterical girl? For Heaven’s sake, stop it. Tell me 
where she is if you can’t take me, damn you!” 

And then he caught at some real understanding in the 
middle of this nightmare, and stopped shaking Max, and 
instead picked up an overturned chair and put his brother 
in it. He looked helplessly round the room for some water 
but, beyond a wide wet stain and a broken ewer, there was 
no sign of any. On the dressing-table, however, amongst 
the remnants of splintered glass and twisted gold, a bottle 
of smelling salts had escaped destruction, and with a dreary 
smile at its inefficient femininity, he took it back to Max. 
But he had already got hold of himself though he was still 
leaning forward with his head on his hands, but he was 
quiet, making heroic efforts to collect his mind and get 
mastery of simple material facts, such as that Paul’s return 
relieved him of crushing responsibility, and that between 
them they could hope to get the Queen somewhere safe. 

He looked up when Paul touched him. 

“Sorry, Paul. It’s been rather a strain. I wondered if 
you would come. We might go now.” 

The light was so dim they could hardly see each other’s 
faces save in white patches in the sombre shadow. Max 
took the papers out of his pocket. 

“You had better keep these. Come along.” 

They passed out into a wide corridor where were more 
dead and, at the end, a barricade of overturned furniture— 
costly cabinets, chests, inlaid tables, armchairs—piled up in 
confusion, splintered, battered, and smashed, mere debris 
left by the tide. Max threaded his way between them, 
speaking over his shoulder to Paul: 

“They held this for nearly fifteen minutes, Camillo and 
five of the Guard, and that gave us time to get her away. 
Camillo came after us and he’s in charge now. One 
moment, Paul—” 


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He stopped and knelt down, feeling in the darkness; then 
by the tiny light of a match, he turned over a dead man, 
holding the light close to the face. 

“Enrico Lalli. I feared he had fallen. ,, 

He sighed as he spoke. Paul heard and did not hear. 
One half of his brain had taken in the fact that the dead 
men here and on the stairs were of the famous 19th Foot- 
guards, of whom two companies at least were of Orense 
people. Those dead faces he had seen were of Orense. But 
all this was an unreal nightmare, the only thing that 
mattered was to reach her, and see and know her safe! And 
here was Max concerning himself with dead men! He 
seemed to hear himself cursing his brother and telling him to 
hurry, with fierce words, but in reality he had said nothing, 
only wondered in mute despair at their slowness. Yet Max 
—whatever Paul thought—went swiftly, talking as he went, 
and sometimes his voice echoed oddly in the emptiness. 
They were mere bald facts he jerked out and it was only 
later, when circumstances made demand on his memory, that 
Paul knew he had taken in the words. 

The last words, however, struck his consciousness most 
clearly. 

“I left our people holding the stairs and ran up to her 
room and barricaded the passage as you saw. When I got 
to her there was not a woman left, except a servant of some 
sort—the right sort anyhow! She had got the Queen to put 
on a cloak and was trying to persuade her to go away. She 
flung herself on me and explained that she had a sister quite 
near in Stretta Royal, a milliner, and she knew the way 
through the servants’ quarters, and—Well we got out. 
Camillo held the passage with Enrico till the last, but he got 
away, thank God! and caught us up in the street so we got 
to the milliner’s. She’s the right sort too! I asked her— 
the Queen—if there were anything they must not find. 


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305 


Apparently, those papers. Mind the steps here! That’s 
all, I think. Feel along the wall—here’s the door.” 

They were out in the quiet street now, the clean pure even¬ 
ing all about them. The Stretta Royal was a modest, quiet 
thoroughfare with a few select shops scattered amongst 
private houses. The private houses, all shuttered closely or 
deserted, were but blind eyes; there were no passers-by; the 
streets were unlighted but there was light enough here to see, 
and in the sky a few faint stars were visible. Paul strode on 
till Max pulled him against the wall. 

“That’s the house,” he said shortly; “but we must make 
sure we are not seen. Stay here.” 

He crossed the road, looked up and down, and knocked at 
the door of Madame Lucile, a Court milliner. The shop 
front was closed as were other shops. There was no sign of 
life about the place at all, but the door opened. Max looked 
back and beckoned, and Paul followed. 

“Who’s that?” demanded Orsena’s voice. 

“The Prince is here!” 

Orsena choked back an exclamation. 

The Prince, without seeing him, passed on into the dimly 
lighted shop where the high hat-stands—like monstrous 
long-legged birds with bodies conceived and born of night¬ 
mares—seemed bent on barring his progress and, like 
ghostly sentinels, were reflected in the interminable vista of 
mirrors. The Prince stopped, oddly bewildered. Then a 
mirror on a door swung aside and a woman entered. She 
wore a white apron and carried a knife in her hand. She 
stared at the tall stranger standing amongst her showcases 
and a fierce light flashed in her eyes. 

An overwhelming feeling of unreality coupled with the 
wild incongruity of his brother’s tall figure amongst these 
long-legged grotesque birds, the fierce white-aproned 
woman, the whole dim picture of it, flashed on Max with 


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a maddening sense of misfit so that he was within an ace of 
bursting into hysterical laughter, and had to gasp and snatch 
hold on himself to keep it back. 

Then the Prince turned to him, and the look in his eyes 
steadied Max completely. Pie glanced at the woman, who 
gave a tiny sign. 

“This way/' said Max at last, in his own level voice, and 
pushed open another door which opened into a short passage. 
The door at the other end was open and opposite it, motion¬ 
less—the very personification of waiting dread—sat Tessa 
as she had sat since Max had left her, without a word or 
movement. 

She sprang up now; 

“Max! Max!” 

Her voice was hoarse with fear—and then it broke into 
a cry as some one—not Max—sprang forward; one cry, and 
his arms were round her and for a merciful moment fear and 
danger were shut out from her shattered, tortured mind. 

Max pulled the door to, behind them, and went back to the 
shop. The maid, Nadia, was there now standing behind her 
sister, and they and Orsena broke into questions. 

“He found me in the Palace,” Max said curtly. “Of 
course he would come.” Then to the women: “Get a meal 
ready of some sort. When did we last eat?” 

The women disappeared. Orsena and he discovered 
possible defences at need in velvet ottomans and upturned 
chairs. Presently the Prince came out. He found them 
listening intently at the door, and he paused in the demand 
he had intended making and listened also. 

It was far away still, but it was there, persistenly rising 
and falling, a muffled sound of voices. 

“I think,” said Max collectedly, “they are coming back 
this way; they may not come here, but Madame’s maid¬ 
servant ran away when she recognized the Queen—and 


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307 


I fired too late. We had, however, better eat while we can. 
They are getting some food.” 

As he spoke the two women appeared with trays of coffee 
and bread and butter. 

“If Her Majesty can only be made to take some food/’ 
suggested Nadia. She looked helplessly at Max (she 
carried the smaller daintier tray ). The big man stood in her 
way. 

“Make her eat, Paul/’ said Max. His brother took the 
tray and went back with it to the inner room. The others 
all four ate without thinking of it, without words, always 
listening, with strained ears—Then it came. 

It burst suddenly with immense volume as the crowd 
broke into the Stretta Royal shouting madly, and they could 
hear words now: 

“The milliner’s shop! The milliner’s shop!” It echoed 
deafeningly. 

The men began to push up the defences, Madame Lucile 
swooping off one by one the creations of art, and laying 
them instinctively in a show case. The last hat-stand 
Madame kept in her hand. 

“I have no gun,” she said to Max, “but this is useable.” 

“You must go inside!” Max said firmly. 

Madame laughed. 

“I?—but Nadia will stay with Her Majesty, she is of 
the Household; I defend my house. We are three, it is 
better than two.” 

“Bravo, Madame!” cried Orsena, whose eyes were begin¬ 
ning to shine with battle lust again. “That’s the right sort 
of woman. She’s right, Max—three are better than two.” 
None of them counted on the Prince’s help here, it appeared. 
Then they found him among them. Outside the mob had 
surged up and were shouting to them to open. 

It was the Prince who took command. 


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“Stand ready to open the door,” he said. “I am going to 
speak to them. Be ready to close it at once if they won’t 
hear me, or rush it. If they do that, don’t stop, close it on 
me. I can keep them off for a minute, and you must get her 
to the Orense Palace by the back way, and to Arenzano 
afterwards. Camillo can delay them. Perhaps they’ll hear 
me. Put out the light.” 

For a second Max wavered. Then the certainty that his 
brother’s presence was their best protection brought him to 
obedience. The shuttered double glass door was opened and 
the Prince stepped out on the narrow steps, his big figure 
filling the space, and those within filled up the darkness 
behind him. 

They saw him, recognized him, and the roar that greeted 
him was like that of a breaking wave echoing back and 
back. The wild, shouting, screaming, gesticulating mob 
carried torches, lamps, and burning sticks, and the glare lit 
up the darkened street—lit up also the face of the great 
Prince as he stood facing that murderous sea of uncaged 
passion, and they cheered him. And from the front the cry 
broke and rolled down the street, echoed in other streets, 
was taken up and tossed about the tortured city, as some 
spell breathing of safety and calm to come. 

“The Regent! Prince Paul d’Arenzano! Our Prince! 
He is here! Prince Paul!” 

So they voiced their wild joy and frenzied hope that here 
was a leader. His stern face never moved. He stood 
looking at them, and the cries died down round him to a 
whisper. 

Then he spoke. 

“People of Cardozza, mad disobedient children, what have 
you done? What have you to answer for? I gave you 
order, law, justice, and you trample them under foot as 
brute beasts. I leave you for so short a time and—” 


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309 


They broke out, after being held in check for a moment 
by the magic of his presence. 

“You left us and we starved—they robbed us. Come 
back to us, Prince. We starve!” 

But before his flung-up hand they grew quiet again, and 
his voice went on: 

“If you had wrongs, do 1 you think you will right them 
this way, by dragging your country and yourselves in the 
dust before the eyes of the world ? Do you not know what 
they will call you—mad rioters, fools without reason, 
deserving such Government as you get—worse,” (His voice 
rose.) “thieves, murderers of women and children!” 

He paused, and his eyes roamed over the sea of faces. 
Not a hand was lifted against him yet; a faint hope kindled 
in him. He spoke again saying he had returned to show 
them a better way; if they would disperse and return home 
he would on the morrow meet their leaders, he would stand 
between the Government and them, would be their 
arbitrator. 

Then they broke out again, a wild fierce passion of desire 
firing them. 

“Not arbitrator, not that! Leader! Governor! King!” 

And at that the whole crowd took up the cry, with cheer 
and shout, so that his great voice seemed lost and drowned in 
the volume. But he held on and conquered, and it rang 
above the tumult. 

“Who shall dictate to me, what I shall be and what I shall 
not be? By Heaven, if you think I am your puppet, I will 
leave you in your need. It is greater than you know. You 
follow me —not I, you!” 

But as he spoke, some man climbing on the shoulders of a 
fellow lit an opposite gas jet which, shining straight into 
the shop, illumined the darkness behind him and, behind a 


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little circle of white faces was another face—whiter still— 
listening; and the lamp-lighter raised his voice and pointed: 

“The Queen! The Queen! The Queen! In the room 
behind him! Drag her out—get her first !” 

It was all instantaneous then. The howls of the mob 
were like hounds brought back to the scent by the crack of a 
whip. They screamed her name and Carodi’s, coupled each 
and both with unspeakable epithets, and surged towards the 
shop—all reason scattered again by insensate cruelty and lust 
of hate. 

And on the steps Paul d’Arenzano fought and struggled 
with the onslaught, holding his own only by reason of the 
narrow entrance, while those within piled up the barrier, 
leaving just the margin for his entry. A stone, aimed at 
the Queen, hurtled through the door and caught his head. 
Then a man mad with fury gesticulated wildly, tried to pass 
him, flung an evil name in at the petrified woman—howled 
it out once, and no more! The Prince caught him up and 
hurled him back on the crowd, a broken missile! They fell 
back before his arm then, and cringed at his words. 

“Liars! Liars, all!” His great voice echoed in the room 
behind. “Liars and cowards!” They dragged him inside. 

The result of his fierce onslaught had for the moment 
choked the narrow entrance with fallen men; they piled the 
heavy counters, ottomans and chairs, before the door, and 
in the comparative silence gasped and took breath. Some 
one turned up the light. 

The Prince sprang to the Queen, who stood there with 
that dazed fixed look, and he caught the girl Nadia by the 
arm. 

“The back way, show me; and you—” He turned to 
Max. “—Orsena and you, hold them, occupy ten minutes— 
five minutes—all you can!” 

Nadia snatched a hat, a sort of hood arrangement, and 


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311 


put it on the Queen, slipped a coat on her while Paul held 
her, and then they hurried out into the little passage leading 
to the kitchen, up some area steps and into a street. The 
cold air seemed like the breath of Heaven, but the clamor 
from the street before the house was greater and greater. 
Nadia stood listening. 

“This way!” she said. They sped down a narrow path 
between the backs of houses into a great empty read, that 
opened on a street that was a mass of swaying, fighting 
people. Some one ran past them, turned, saw, and sped on 
with a cry. Nadia pushed her companions down a second 
intersecting path. 

“That way,” she panted. “I’ll run on and decoy them!” 

Before he could stop her (if he would), she was speeding 
down the road. He heard her call out, saw the man hurry 
up and catch sight of her, and heard the yell of triumph he 
gave. Then the crowd broke into the street—the prey 
well in view, stumbling now as it ran. He hurried down the 
narrow way with Tessa till the sounds were remote. She 
could hardly move. He spoke to her, told her they would be 
safe if she obeyed him, stopped and straightened the hood. 
They had to cross a main thoroughfare and a rather 
uncertain throng trying to decide which route would offer 
most sport, or most chance of pillage ; dived again into a 
quiet side street, then into a narrow lane flanked by a wall. 
It was quite dark here and he felt along it gropingly, found 
what he sought—a door—and leaned her against it. There 
was no fastening but the lock and his hand went mechanical¬ 
ly to his pocket, found a key—the master-key of the Orense 
Palace! A moment more, the scratch of the key in the 
dark, and then! They were inside. The door shut, and 
Paul gave a sigh of thankfulness. 

“Safe!” he whispered. 


312 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


II 

“Six shots and a sword,” said Camillo gayly, “not so bad 
for a mob. What’s yours, Max?” 

“Six shots and a knife!” returned Max grimly, jerking 
out the hunting knife of his race. 

Madame Lucile shook her hat-stand defiantly, she had 
knocked off the little red cushion at the end; the rough iron 
point looked nasty. 

The beating at the door and the splintering of the glass 
against the shutters testified to the unabated fury against 
them. Max looked round, then pointed to the angle by the 
door to Madame’s sanctum (where Tessa had waited), next 
the door to the back premises by which the Prince and the 
women had gone. 

“That’s our stand,” he said. “We’ll take it at once so as 
not to separate. Lock both the doors, Camillo, then if we go 
down it will take the longer.” 

“And give me the key,” remarked Madame, as she swiftly 
undid her white apron and tossed it into a corner. The key 
she tucked into her hair. The two men noted both move¬ 
ments and Orsena murmured: “Bravo!” 

“Kneel between us, Madame, and unhorse them with 
your lance,” put in Orsena cheerfully. “There go the 
shutters; Max, give me first blood! Arenzano for ever! 
Ho la! Ho la!” 

His brave voice rang out in the old hunting cry as the door 
gave and the tide broke through, struggling over the 
barricade. Orsena fired, and dropped his man before the 
other had surmounted the barricade obstruction. 

“Wait till you can take two,” cried Max, “then shoot!” 
They had the entrance now, flinging the barricade this way 
and that; stones hurtled through the air, smashing the silver 
mirrors and whizzing round the little garrison. 


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313 


The little shop was like some cave into which vast waves 
swept roaring, retreated, and rushed on again. The shots 
did deadly work; seven dead men were piled up amongst the 
remnants of the furniture; one man mortally wounded 
coughed his life away in a corner. Still the insurgent sea 
swept on, for now things were equal, no more of that cursed 
shooting! The three held their corner, though Orsena had 
ceased his battle cry: he used his sword now, and the temper 
of the mob was open reading as stick, club, hatchet, and bare 
hands, flung themselves into the circle of death-dealing steel. 
He shouted still from time to time, but his voice was thick 
and choking. And from between the two men, Madame 
drove her formidable weapon amongst the legs of the on- 
comers, thrusting this way and that, doing ugly work; her 
face grim and set, her yes lit with savage fire that assuredly 
Madame’s customers never dreamed slumbered in their 
calm depths. Count Max, on the right, worked silently, his 
left arm and shoulder were useless, but he dodged and dived 
and struck again till the long knife was red from hilt to 
point, and wounded men fell back with snarls, and dead 
men lay at his feet. But the execution was not all on their 
side. Knives and pointed sticks had ripped their clothes to 
ribbons, stones had struck them; one side of Madame’s 
head was streaming; Orsena was fighting still and support¬ 
ing himself against the wall, with a knife in his left thigh. 
Madame fell first. Some one else had perceived the 
advantage of a hat-stand as a weapon. Orsena saw her fall, 
averted his eyes, and tried to push her back, but the effort 
brought him to his knees. It was Max who dodged the 
attacker and struck sideways, and wrenched his weapon 
back with difficulty; and then suddenly, a pause, a queer 
momentary dizzying cessation, and a new move in the 
shrill hubbub without caught the ear. 

For a second every head was turned to the door. Max 


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caught the moment to push Madame’s body out of the way 
of trampling feet; then Orsena struggled upright again. 
One man withdrew his attention from the new cries without 
and drove at Orsena with a stake under the now failing 
sword arm; the sword dropped with a clatter as he reeled 
back on Max, who had swung round and once more driven 
his knife into the enemy. Orsena pitched forward, nearly 
upsetting him. 

“Sorry, Max,” he gasped, struggling to regain his balance. 
“Like me to fail you at a pinch.” 

“Can’t you hold out?” Max’s voice was urgently fierce. 
“They’re going, I think—no—Oh, curse them!” 

The last of the crowd now struggling for exit turned; 
perhaps the exit looked an affair of time which should not 
be wasted, but they turned anyhow. 

“Finish them off first! The cursed Palace swine!” 
screamed a man and hurled a missile through the air at Max, 
but it struck Orsena’s tottering, swaying figure, and he fell. 
Max stumbled back against the wall behind, now conscious 
only of noise indescribable, a rushing world slipping by him 
and a crawling something which struck upwards. Surely 
he struck in return but through hot flames of anguish—he 
too had failed Paul! And so unconscious, he fell across the 
door they had guarded for so gallant a long ten minutes! 

With a joyful cry the remaining man sprang out of the 
shop: a woman had been seized running away! The Queen? 
Here was newer and hotter business. Quick, or there 
would be nothing for them to do! 

The shop of Madame Lucile, Court Milliner, became still 
and quiet, but its remaining mirrors reflected other things 
than hats! 

***** * 

Night settled down on the suffering city. Here and there 


THE REVOLUTION 


315 


her nerves quivered and throbbed under the cruel clamor, 
but large areas lay silent and paralyzed. 

In shuttered, silent houses nervous hands made little 
chinks so that sound and the fitful moonlight might enter, 
and white-faced people ate odd hurried little meals, all 
listening. In these areas where was silence, the sense of 
hearing seemed most acute. 

In the active nerve centre, people stopped their ears, 
muffled the heads of their children, and prayed for silence. 
The streets, lit here and there by solitary lamps and the 
glare from some pillaged shops where gas jets still blazed, 
were easy walking. 

A neatly clad man, who seemed neither in haste nor fear, 
stopped at the corner of the Stretta Royal under a gas jet 
to peer up at the name of the street. It did not seem to help 
him much when he had deciphered it. He looked round 
doubtfully, then took out of his pocket a motley collection 
of things which he laid on a convenient window-ledge and 
regarded with pleased satisfaction. There was a morsel of 
china (a connoisseur might have prized it), a remnant of 
silk tapestry, a bent shoe-buckle, a silver thing—it was 
impossible to say what—twisted into a sort of ball, 
suspiciously stained, and a carved ivory rosary. 

“Can’t go back yet,” murmured the man, thrusting them 
into his pocket again. “Anyhow this part is safe as Hyde 
Park. I wonder if there’s anything down here. I saw a gas 
jet burning.” He talked softly to himself as if he found 
company in his voice, and he did not speak Romanzian but 
English, which accounted for his unfamiliarity with the 
streets. He went towards the illuminated shop. 

It was a hat shop, though its chief commodity did not at 
present seem to consist of hats—up the narrow entrance and 
over the velvet pile carpet lay dead bodies of men in uncouth, 
strange attitudes. The strange man stood on the top steps, 


316 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


the light in his alert eyes shining with curiosity. Then he 
saw in the angle by two doors three bodies lying, one * 
apparently a woman; and he stepped in, his quick mind 
trying to visualize the scene that hed ended in this. 

“But why here?” he muttered, frowning. Then he saw 
that one of the dead wore uniform, and a military sword 
lay on the floor. The man lay on his side, his head on his 
arm, and his face was more than peaceful—it was as if a 
look of exultation had been fixed there by Death’s arrow. 
But he had made no mistake; he was dead. The man, whose 
name was Trent, (a mere travelling Englishman), laid his 
long limbs straight with gentle hands. 

“I suppose they were forgotten,” he thought. “Good 
Heavens! What a fight!” 

He looked round again and then moved the dead woman. 
There was also no mistake here, and he hurriedly sought a 
decent covering for the poor remains. In another corner 
lay a crumpled linen apron, and he spread it over her face, 
and again viewed the scene. He reconstructed it better. 
That was a revolver on the ground. It helped to account 
for the dead men. No, two revolvers and a sword. What a 
fight! The man lying face downwards before the door 
was dead too, of course. If he had not been here in the 
fatal corner, he would hardly know if he were one of the 
mob or not. His clothes hung in tatters on him. His arm 
had been roughly bound up, but the bandage had slipped. 
His shirt (there was hardly any of it left) was rent in 
ribbons. He still held an odd big knife in his outstretched 
hand. Trent looked at it narrowly. Here was a relic 
worth collecting. He turned him over carefully, and it 
seemed to him his face looked less frozen than the others. 
From a clean cut on his temple the blood was oozing in little 
drops, very, very slowly. It took Trent a moment to take 
in what that meant, for he was no medical student. Then 


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317 


he suddenly recollected and, in a frenzy of excitement, tore 
open the remains of the shirt and tried to find the heart. 
Yes, surely something, some machinery still measured the 
failing pulse of life! 

Here indeed was adventure such as he had never dreamed 
of! He saw the ugly knife low down in the side. Must it 
come out? It was not work he liked or had done, but he 
had some common-sense and some memory: it was no use to 
pull it out if he had no bandage. He looked at the apron 
but could not touch it; he tried the doors and found to his 
surprise they were locked. 

“Caught in a trap, poor wretch!” he muttered. 

Strangely enough it was only one man to him now. An 
overturned ottoman lay on its side disgorging hats—wide, 
narrow, trimmed and untrimmed—tangled silks, and a linen 
cover. He caught at that, made shift with a knife he picked 
up to slash it into strips, and then made his first attempt at 
surgery. It was ugly work and it looked very unprofession¬ 
al, but it seemed effectual. There was a wound on the 
shoulder too and he bound it up; then it struck him the 
half-dead man was cold. Near the door lay a rioter in a 
long coat—a sort of street orator—he would need a coat 
no more. But it would serve as a covering. Trent went to 
the door and looked out. No, there was nobody. If he 
wanted help he must fetch it. The Public Guard were no 
good, he’d learned that already. A hospital was what he 
wanted. He sat down on the floor by his patient, pulled a 
book out of his pocket and sought assistance from the 
wonderful Murray. He was, as has been already said, a 
man of common-sense and, impatient as he was to fetch help, 
he realized that a knowledge of the route to the nearest 
hospital was more likely to serve his haste than an 
insufficient general idea of direction; so he sat cross-legged 
on the floor till he had gripped it. 


318 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“First to the right—no, to the left, I’m facing the Palace. 
First to left, second to right, across the Square, and to 
right again—no distance!” He shut the book, sprang up 
and, having given one last look at the living man, hurried 
out. 

In the vestibule of the Hospital of St. Peter, weary 
women and nurses from the newly founded Institute hard 
by, students and doctors, passed to and fro, srtuggling to 
deal with the flotsam and jetsam the revolutionary tide 
swept up to its open door. For twenty-four hours they had 
gone on incessantly, the women scarcely able to stand took 
rough orders from exhausted doctors, swearing in their 
weariness as they selected fresh patients. Through the 
throng a man shouldered his way to a group of men, just 
pausing for a breath of air before returning to work. 

“I’ve found a wounded man,” he began, and they laughed. 

“By Hisculapius! we’ve found several hundreds!” scoffed 
one voice. “You’d better keep him; we’ve enough.” 

“He’ll die if he’s not seen to, he’s badly hurt.” Trent 
struggled to keep his temper. His Romanzian was im¬ 
perfect, it was possible he might not understand them. The 
speaker shrugged his shoulders. 

“A good lot will die, he’ll have company,” he remarked, 
and went away. 

Trent flushed scarlet and looked around. The babble of 
tongues in partially understood language got on his nerves. 

“I’ll come with you,” said a quiet voice at his elbow, 
“if it’s not far.” He was an unobtrusive looking student, 
with steady grey eyes. 

Trent spun round thankfully. 

“Stretta Royal, a milliner’s shop,” he said. 

Someone else looked up. 

“Oh yes, they killed that woman just beyond.” 


THE REVOLUTION 


319 


Trent and the student went out. An improvised 
ambulance was just being unloaded. They commandeered 
it and went off. 

“Odd stories one hears,” remarked the student jerkily; 
only one’s no time to find out. Some say the Queen’s 
killed!” He eyed his companion curiously. 

“Brutes!” muttered the other, and then aloud: “It’s 
jolly exciting for a chance visitor! I’ve been collecting 
souvenirs. Wonder how it will end?” 

The student shrugged his shoulders. 

“If we had the Prince back—there’s a wild tale he’s been 
seen. Rot, of course, but there are all sorts of stories, best 
believe nothing. Is this the place?” 

“Yes, the floor’s rather littered up,” he remarked grimly, 
and went in. It was all as he had left it—and the wounded 
man lay still though Trent fancied his hand had moved as 
if groping for something. 

“He’s alive right enough now,” his companion said. “Is 
this your work?” and pointed to the bandages with a grin. 

Trent said “Yes” curtly. “I’ve no knowledge,” he pro¬ 
tested. 

“Well, we’re wasting our time, you know. He won’t last 
till we get there; still, if you’re bent on it.” 

“I am,” returned the other shortly. They got the 
wounded man into the ambulance, then the student went 
back and looked at the women, and then came out again. 

“Sharp fight there!” he said, “But it’s no use, you know, 
he’ll die.” They spoke no more, but the Englishman’s jaw 
had closed in a manner that betokened he intended to fight 
for his own way, even in the face of Death. 

At the hospital again they had to wait long. One and 
another cast a glance at their charge, shrugged their 
shoulders and passed on. The student went away, presently 
he returned. 


320 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“There’s a bed if we wait,” he said, grudgingly; “a man’s 
just died. When he’s out, we’ll take your friend up: it’s 
out of turn but I know the nurse.” 

“He’s not my friend,” began the Englishman, but the 
other did not hear. Here was an Englishman, mad, of 
course. There would only be a fuss if one crossed him. 
He’d met English people before. 

At last the long ward and a nurse—and a bed with the 
clothes still tumbled! 

“Get him to bed, and I’ll see whom I can send,” said the 
student. 

The nurse looked her despair. 

“Can’t you help?” she said sharply; “I can lift no more!” 

“I’ll help,” said the Englishman. The student grinned 
and disappeared. Under directions Trent assisted to get the 
man undressed, and shivered at the sight of his injuries. 

“It’s almost wasting time,” said the nurse, wearily. 

“It isn’t,” retorted Trent, fiercely. “I don’t care what 
you say, he must live! I want to know about that fight!” 
Then he added, looking at the ashen face: “I wonder who 
he is.” 

The nurse looked. Her face assumed a puzzled 
expression. 

“See if his clothes are marked,” she said. “I’ll be back 
directly.” She moved off to another patient. 

Trent took up the tattered coat. There was a handker¬ 
chief marked with an A in cypher; a letter-case pierced 
through, which he did not open; and a leather card-case, 
which he did. When the nurse returned he was still stand¬ 
ing looking from the card to the man on the bed. He put 
it in her hand. 

“That’s who he is,” he said shortly. “If stories are true, 
it accounts for the fight.” 


THE REVOLUTION 


321 


The nurse read: “Count Maximilian d’Arenzano, 10, 
Stretta Nichosa.” 

She gasped with horror and excitement. 

“Saints protect us! This must be reported instantly!” 
She rushed off again with the card in her hand and Trent 
remained staring down at the wounded man. Count Max 
d’Arenzano—that was the late Foreign Minister who had 
just resigned to the despair of the remnants of the young 
Liberal Party. But this was quite a young man, hardly 
more than twenty-five or tweny-six, younger than Trent 
himself, who boasted of thirty-two summers and was begin¬ 
ning to think it time to settle some definite plan in life. 

Then there was an arrival of surgeons, and helpers. 
Screens were produced and other beds pushed further away. 
Trent wandered out into the corridor. An official of the 
hospital came to him. 

“You are the man who found Count Max,” he said 
abruptly; “may I ask if you know him?” 

Trent explained the position hurriedly. 

“Yes, but some one must tell his wife,” interrupted the 
worried man. “We can spare no one. Can you take word 
in the morning?” 

Then half irritably he added: “There are these ridiculous 
rumors about the Prince’s return, of his speaking—absurd, 
of course; he’d have been with Count Max. Well, there’s 
my room, if you want to rest.” 

Trent had to accept, he was tired out and conscious of 
irritability that kindled itself against the Secretary, odd 
impatience; wished he’d stop speaking of those beastly 
politics—all Greek to him. But he hoped, hoped wildly, 
that the man upstairs would get round. 

“What a fight!” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


MAX 

I 

'T'HE Prince groped his way down a dim passage and 
along a silent corridor and so into a room where much 
of his life had been spent. Here he laid the Queen back in 
a chair and gently disengaged her clinging hands. 

“You are quite safe here, my beloved, in my own house!” 
he whispered. 

He lit a candle mechanically and looked round at the 
chilling order of a dis-used room. There must be servants 
somewhere. Donati was in charge. 

Having tucked a wolf skin round her he went out to find 
assistance. 

To the amazed Donati and his wife he gave certain sharp 
orders for food to be brought to the library and a bedroom 
to be got ready. 

There was no room kept ready but His Highness’s own, 
it appeared. That was always aired and prepared. 

“Count Max’s,” he said quickly. 

Their quarrel had no place in the memory of this Paul. 
The timid reminder that his brother was not living at the 
Palace cut him to the heart. But he had to shut down his 
322 


MAX 


323 


mind on the subject of Max, that was a sick dread to be 
faced later. 

He gave a few more directions and returned to the Queen. 

The light and warmth had roused her, but she was shak¬ 
ing with terror to find herself alone, and he soothed her with 
endearing words and caressed her as one might to calm a 
frightened child. 

Presently he coaxed her to eat the food they brought. 
Wearily at first but then aware of sudden exhilaration in the 
nearness of her presence and the proximity of her little white 
face as she hid it against him and refused to eat. 

Slowly a sense of security gained on her, and he persuaded 
her to go and rest upstairs until such time as he could safely 
take her farther. 

He left her at the door of the room with old Luca, the 
happier for the assurance he gave her that it was his own 
room. 

All the while, in his mind, he was making plans. He 
went to the stables, made arrangements, wrote notes to be 
delivered on the morrow; out of sight of her he was aware 
of the aching desire to know something but dimly connected 
with the present safety of the Queen of Romanzia; some¬ 
thing he had no time to know! 

At last he lay down. They were to call him in an hour, 
but he woke before it had passed, starting up with a cry of 
“Max!” and finding an empty darkened room and a dead 
fire. 1 i 

He had to fetch the Queen; she would not leave the room 
without him. 

They must walk a little way, the carriage would await 
them in a street near by. He felt her reawakened terror as 
they went though she uttered no sound. Old Donati 
accompanied them. He had a last reminder for him: 


324 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Remember, if you get news, the swiftest horse possible, 
to overtake us.” 

Through the night they drove, the sound of the quick 
hoofs preceding them through space and leaving a train of 
echoes behind. Safe through the city; out into the new 
unfinished suburbs; into the hilly country amongst the vine¬ 
yards and walled gardens; into open uninhabited country— 
and she lay in his arms, still and quiet, only now and then 
her hands quivered and pressed his. Sometimes he thought 
she slept and refrained from movement, though the cramped 
position tortured his long limbs: sometimes he spoke to her, 
spoke of the moon descending in the heavens, of the night 
scents of the earth, wafted in to them. And through all the 
long hours he strained his hearing to catch some faint echoes 
of pursuing feet, some lilt of a galloping horse, something 
to ease—or forever fiix—the sick aching at his heart. “You 
will hold it ten minutes, five minutes —” Between whiles he 
tried to remember what he had said to Max and could 
recollect nothing but curt short words of question and 
command. 

The first cold shiver of dawn came on them at the 
frontier. Here they had to stop, yet he welcomed it, 
welcomed the chance to look back along the empty space of 
road, wanly visible now in the grey light. 

Tessa slept again. The dawn was cold and he held her 
close. When he kept his eyes on her piteous little face he 
could still his own agony; it was merely an exchange of pain 
for pain. The day dropped out of the night sadly, without 
enthusiasm. It was still faint dawn when they entered the 
forest land, but grey morning when they emerged. 

He left her safely at the Castle, but even so his journey 
was not yet over. He must go to Melino this time, to 
Orsena's house. 


MAX 


325 


And to the friend of his youth he said, with a voice old 
in sorrow: 

“I have left your son to almost certain death—and eternal 
honor!” 

And Orsena drew up his brave figure (so like Camillo’s) 
and said: 

“Camillo could but do his duty, my Prince.” 

But the Prince bent his head. 

“You shame me, Orsena. I left Max with him and I am 
cursing Fate!” Then he caught his breath and pulled him¬ 
self up, turning to the Countess Orsena with her stricken 
face and brave eyes. 

“And you, Countess, if you can find it in your heart to 
help those for whom Camillo was content to die, then I want 
you now to return to Arenzano with me, for she is there and 
no women but servants to help her.” 

The Countess looked at her husband, and then at the 
Prince. 

“I will be ready—in ten minutes.” The Prince pressed 
her hand and she left them. 

Then he turned and told what he knew. 

“I cannot think they have escaped,” he said; “they would 
hold it to the end!” 

Orsena nodded. 

“To the end, of course. I will go to Cardozza and 
enquire; and you?” 

“I return as soon as I may. Say nothing: only a few 
know I was there. Did you know Max and I had 
quarrelled?” He spoke brusquely. 

Orsena put his hand on his arm. 

“It takes two to quarrel. I have seen Max. I do not 
think he considered it a quarrel.” 

“God forgive me, Orsena; you’ve sorrow of your own. 
Forget mine!” 


326 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


He walked away abruptly; but in Orsena’s heart the 
sorrow that ran deepest was grief for the man bereft now of 
all he loved, and condemned not to death but to life. 

II 

The city, like some wounded animal, lay waiting with 
weary eyes the going and coming of the one physician in 
whom her faith was fixed. The stream of departing 
carriages ceased, for their physician had said he would do 
nothing for the fugitives if they deserted their city, and 
would not answer for their houses and treasures, and estates. 
And when there had been a low muttering of “The Queen 
has gone.” “Why not?” he had burst out in tempestuous 
wrath; “the Queen is safe, no thanks to you who left her 
and a handful of men to face destruction, while you saved 
your own skins! No, I will not tell you where she is, but 
she shall return—when you are fit to have her.” 

If they secretly thought the fitness might be on the side 
of her who was the figure-head, at least, of the evil, they did 
not say so aloud, for the Prince must not be angered: their 
safety, even perhaps their lives depended on him, the only 
possible intermediary between themselves and this horrible 
apparition, this hydra-headed monster of under-world life. 
How or when he had arrived amongst them, few knew; but 
it was known that he had called one morning on Avala, who 
was a mere flabby heap of nerves: that the same afternoon 
there was another meeting and the Prince was there. One 
knew not just where he would be next, only one might sleep 
safely in one’s bed so long as he was there, with one hand on 
the monster’s throat—or was it on his head merely? 

Thus the upper world, with its claim for unruffled blue 
sky and serenity of atmosphere that it might pursue its 
pleasures untroubled. But what of the lower world that had 
tasted blood. Anarchy stood still, snarling yet but arrested 


MAX 


327 


by the touch of one hand, and those who had unchained her 
waited, hating the fruits of their works and sick at heart 
at what they had unchained, while the strong fingers of the 
one man—cunningly, skilfully, surely,—buckled the restrain¬ 
ing muzzle of order and law over those dangerous jaws. 
The Prince was in hourly jeopardy. A careless word, an 
impetuous action on either side, and he might fall. But he 
came and went unmoved, heedless and imperious. 

He had scorn for either side, but slowly, he gathered up 
the threads of his lost power. Hour by hour, the straps of 
the muzzle tightened; hour by hour those who had been in 
power retreated, leaving him more elbow room. It was 
actually a question of hour by hour, interspersed with short 
wild outbreaks of fury among the populace, and similar 
outbreaks of panic amongst the higher folks. And he played 
one party against the other with consummate skill, gathering 
together round him the men who could help—all but the one 
man who would have been such a tower of support to him. 

Twice a day he sent to the Queen with a hurried line of 
his well-being. All day long and all night he toiled and 
worked for her, and all the time an unappeased stifled cry 
in his heart for Max had to be ruthlessly silenced; and 
always before him was the hour when there would be time, 
and it would not be silenced. 

For two days and nights he had toiled, snatching sleep 
and food when he could, and then coming away in the 
evening from a stormy interview with the War Minister, he 
met Orsena, who had indeed tracked him there and waited 
for him. He had not seen him since he had taken him the 
news of Camillo's fate, and borne off from him his wife to 
hide her own sorrow in comforting the stricken Queen. 

Orsena seemed agitated. 

“Prince!” he began hastily. “I want you. Pve my 
carriage here, you must come.” 


328 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


The Prince shook his head: “I must, on the contrary, go 
down to Radichi.” 

“No, Radichi must wait. You must come. I have news 
for you.” 

The Prince looked at him swiftly: 

“You have found him!—them!” He spoke mechanically, 
and as mechanically walked towards the carriage. Orsena 
said nothing till they were seated, then he said quietly: 

“I found my boy’s body after a long search, in the 
mortuary of St. Peter, where all those found in the 
milliner's shop were taken—eleven dead men, my Prince, 
and one woman—” His voice choked. “They did their 
part—our three. There were ten men of the street.” He 
spoke slowly now; “and the woman—and my boy.” 

He stopped. 

The Prince’s eyes were on him, and he said: 

“And what of my boy?” 

“Not there! I hunted again.” 

He stumbled as he spoke, tried to hurry, but the recol¬ 
lection of that search was a memory from which his senses 
reeled. He went on quickly: 

“I went to the Hospice and the hospitals, and there at 
last I found him, this afternoon only—my Prince, he is 
alive, thank God; and I thank Him I am allowed to bring 
you the news.” 

There was silence, but the Prince had room only for the 
one thought. Max zvas alive! The amazing relief was like 
physical pain. He could neither speak nor move. 

Orsena pressed his hand. 

“He is very ill, but Heaven will certainly spare him to 
you now,” he whispered. 

And at that the Prince awoke to something outside him- 


MAX 


329 


self, to the generous unselfishness of his friend that could 
so sincerely rejoice in the mercy vouchsafed to another, and 
denied himself. 

“Orsena, my friend," he began and stopped. 

Orsena spoke hurriedly. 

“I know what you would say, but, Prince, my boy was a 
soldier. It was what he was there for—to give his life at 
need. Max stands for more. If one had to die—” he 
stopped. “Here we are at St. Peter's Hospital. By the way, 
it was an Englishman who saved him—a man called Trent." 

The Prince repeated the name as he got out. 

The vestibule was comparatively empty now, but those 
there recognized him instantly. Hats went off, and a great 
surgeon coming out stopped, and accosted him. 

“Your Highness, I have just left the Count. May I take 
you up? He will probably not know you, but he is better." 

They went up, the eyes of all following them. 

The long ward was no longer disorderly, but on one side 
the narrow beds were slightly closer to each other than of 
old; and at the far end was a screened off space. A nursing 
sister came round the screen, clearing away the last evidences 
of the surgeon's evening visit. 

The Prince stepped past the screen. 

On the bed lay a motionless bandaged figure that the very 
bed-clothes might hardly touch, but except for one head 
bandage his face was hardly marked. One arm, the 
uninjured one, lay outside the clothes; the other was 
strapped across his chest. The light from the shaded candle 
fell across the foot of the bed. He lay in the shadow and 
beside him was a girl who was no nursing sister. The Prince 
neither saw nor heeded her. He stood looking down at his 
brother, who, they said, might live. It took so much to kill 
an Arenzano! The girl drew back into the shadow but 


330 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


her eyes were intent on the visitor. She seemed ready to 
fling herself between the big man and that dear motionless 
form that was her world of men. The Prince came near 
and bent lower, went on his knees by the bed and touched 
the outstretched hand. 

“Speak to him, your Highness,” said the surgeon. 

The slight antagonism in the eyes of the girl, died out at 
the sound of his voice. 

“Max, Max, you saved us. I knew I could trust you!” 

The surgeon, watching the white face, signed to the 
Prince to go on speaking. 

“Little Max, try to understand. You saved her! You 
must live. I’m wanting you, little brother!” He used the 
old patois word with its endearing diminutive, his voice 
broke over it, and he bent again and kissed the “little 
brother’s” hand. 

Max opened his eyes. 

“Pm glad I didn’t fail you, Paul,” he whispered. 

* * * * * * 

After that the Prince came twice a day except that every 
third day by dint of travelling at unholy hours he spent the 
evening with the Queen at Arenzano. He seemed hardly 
aware of the presence of the girl in the grey dress until one 
day, looking back, he saw her bend and kiss Max—and then 
she followed him slowly. He waited for her in the corridor, 
and when she would have passed, he stopped her. 

“Who are you?” he asked, and she met his look with 
brave eyes. 

“I am Philippa, Max’s wife, you know.” 

“Max’s wife!” he repeated, frowning. But he might 
frown as he liked. Philippa had seen the love in his eyes as 
he gazed at his wounded brother, had noticed the caressing 
touch and heard the tender note in his voice. She feared 


MAX 


331 


him no more, but she would ask no favor of him; Max 
would have resented it, only if they might make friends it 
would be well. 

“How do you thing Max is to-day ?” she asked, really 
desirous of his unmedical opinion. 

“The doctors say better.” 

“But you, yourself?” she urged. “Seeing him all day, 
it is so difficult to tell.” 

He looked at her with new interest, and a tinge of 
jealousy: she was there all day with Max! 

“You don’t think him better?” she faltered. 

“The doctors must know. Do you sleep here, at the 
hospital ?” 

“No, I go back at night—if he’s no worse.” 

“You are going back now?” 

“Yes.” 

“You must let me see you home.” 

“Thank you, but Mr. Trent always comes to walk back 
with me.” 

“Trent! That’s the man who found Max?” 

They were walking side by side down the long bare 
corridor. He was aware at last that she was in outdoor 
dress, also that she was pretty. 

“Yes, he found Max. He has been very kind to us,” she 
said quietly. 

“Why don’t you drive ?” 

“We’ve no carriage now.” 

Such an unheard of state of things caused him unreason¬ 
ing anger. It was as if they had mislaid some necessity of 
life. 

“There are plenty at the Orense Palace.” 

“But there’s no room for a carriage in our little apparte- 
ment .” 


332 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


He frowned again. 

“You are living in an appartement?” 

“Yes, only since a month ago. A whole house was too 
much for two people.” 

He cast a swift glance at her. But her childish face was 
innocent of intent to wound. She waved her hand to some 
one at the foot of the sairs. 

“There’s Mr. Trent,” she explained. 

“But you can’t walk backwards and forwards through 
the streets with a stranger, child.” 

The idea shocked him. 

“Indeed I can, it is a great deal better than being alone, 
and he isn’t a stranger now.” 

“Introduce him!” 

She did it instantly on their approach, gravely, and with 
a dignity he had hardly expected. 

“This is Mr. Trent, Prince d’Arenzano, and he saved my 
husband’s life.” 

It was perfect. Not the shadow of blame on the man 
, who had refused to accept her, not a shade of waiving her 
own rights. The Prince appreciated every word and smiled 
quietly. Mr. Trent looked rather abashed. 

The Prince spoke in English—very nearly perfect English, 
Trent noted. 

“There is no wiping out of the debt we owe you, Mr. 
Trent; but bear in mind there is nothing here in Romanzia 
that is not yours, if it is within a man’s power to get it for 
you. And I want your details, come and see me. I am 
generally back at the Orense Palace by eleven at night, if it’s 
not too late for you.” 

Trent murmured rather awkwardly that he’d “be pleased 
to come.” 

The Prince nodded and turned to Max’s wife. 


MAX 


333 


‘I’ll drive you back,” he said decidedly. 

She drew herself the least bit more erect. 

“Mr. Trent has been waiting some time for me,” she 
said, with admirable firmness. “I should prefer to walk, 
thank you all the same.” 

She made him a little bow, and went off, leaving him 
standing on the last step, a little nonplussed, a little angry, 
and a little—a very little amused. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

TO SAVE HER CROWN! 

C OUNT MAX did live, and after long weeks was taken 
to Arenzano with his wife, where he made a com¬ 
plete recovery. 

The Queen remained at Arenzano, and the Countess 
Orsena manfully shouldered the burden of responsibility 
the Prince had laid on her, and assumed control of the domes- 
tice arrangements of the Castle. Very few saw Her Majesty. 
Her terror of strangers embraced all but those the Prince 
himself brought and presented to her; even then she appears 
to have had little sense of security in the Prince’s absence. 

One day in Cardozza he met the plucky little Countess 
Ardemil, and she stopped him. 

“Prince,” she said wistfully, “how is Her Majesty? If 
I can be of any service to her, call me. I did not desert her, 
you know, but my husband carried me off when I was in¬ 
sensible. He declares he is willing to take even your blame 
for doing it.” 

The Prince smiled and shook his head. 

“I have blame for no one. I think the Queen would be 
glad to have you with her.” 


334 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


335 


Apparently she was, for the following letter is dated 
“January 27, 1846.” 


“The Castle of Arenzano. 

“My dear Marie, 

“You will be bewildered at the address with which I head 
my letter. In truth I am a little bewildered myself. I think 
Ardemil would have refused to let me come had he dared, 
but Her Majesty had no ladies of her own at all, and mine 
is the only familiar face about her. None but those of the 
Prince’s household, or of Orense itself are allowed here. 

“But I must relate my story coherently. ^The one thing 
at my command is unlimited leisure and I propose to inflict 
on you a lengthy description of affairs. 

“Arenzano is all and more than my childish recollections 
painted it. I am perpetually losing my way in passages and 
little anterooms; nevertheless, Her Majesty’s apartments, 
when reached, are comfort itself. I believe they compose the 
suite that was arranged for the poor Count Sylvestro and his 
wife, and have been unused since her death. They are cheer¬ 
ful enough, however, and overlook a lovely garden, where 
the Queen can walk on suitable days, without fear of en¬ 
countering any strange face, for her terror of people and 
strangers is very great. 

“When I arrived the Prince himself took me up to her. 
She was sitting by the fire doing nothing—oh Marie, such a 
pitiful wreck of all she was. I saw her eyes brighten as the 
Prince entered but, though she had known I was coming, she 
almost sprang up with fright and clutched his arm, and her 
eyes were like a frightened child’s. He was very gentle and 
patient, and soothed her without apparently noticing her 
fright; then he presented me, and said: 

“ ‘The Countess bears the mark of her loyalty. I think 
we can hardly find her more honorable decoration, can we?’ 


336 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


“Should this reconcile me to the horrid little scar on my 
forehead ? 

“Our days pass very quietly. Occasionally, the Queen 
takes it in her head to wander round the Castle, one of us 
goes with her but she seldom speaks. She will sit for hours 
gazing at nothing, while the Countess Orsena and I read 
and work. After lunch at noon, we persuade her to go out 
if possible in the garden or courtyard. She will not go be¬ 
yond the gates except with the Prince. 

“But when the Prince is here all is different. Mostly he 
arrives at six in the evening, having driven at full speed 
all the way. He dines with us and the marked difference in 
her must, I fear, mislead him as to her real state. After¬ 
wards he sits with her for two hours, and even plays some 
simple game of cards which she has taught him. When she 
retires he interviews the household, and at the hour when we 
settle in to sleep, he is racing back to Cardozza as fast as 
horses can go. Occasionally, he arrives in the early morn¬ 
ing for a whole day and leaves in the evening. Then he 
takes Her Majesty out in a sledge, but these are rare occa¬ 
sions. He says Count Max is recovering, and hopes shortly 
to bring him here with his wife.” 

“February 18. 

“I rejoice that my former letter reached you so speedily. 
That was owing to the Prince’s kindness in forwarding it 
by an official courier going to Mantos. . . Count Max has 
arrived. He stood the journey very well but he certainly 
still needs recovery and I hope he will find it here. The 
Countess is as sweet as ever. Her attitude towards His 
Highness is charming. His care for her is perfectly lovely. 
I betray no confidence if I say the desolating fear that the 
d’Arenzanos might be left without a direct heir is dispersing. 

“The Queen has taken to the Countess fortunately. She 
insisted on going to see Count Max directly he was installed 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


337 


in bed after the journey, and I must admit she behaved ad¬ 
mirably. 

“ ‘We have come to the only place in the world where we 
can get well, Max/ she said. ‘Let’s pretend there isn’t any 
other world.’ And he said he was ready enough. 

“Imagine my surprise and joy to-day when the Prince 
arrived with my children and the good Pruth. He had ar¬ 
ranged it all with Ardemil as a surprise to me. 

“ ‘I could not risk losing you,’ he said; ‘and these little 
ones were weaving spells to carry you off.’ He would hear 
of no thanks. ‘Nothing can repay those who stood by her/ 
he said, almost sternly. Believe me, Marie, my fullest let¬ 
ters convey nothing of the deep currents which are bearing 
us along, and of which I would not write if I could/’ 

II 

Early in March we find them all discussing the Queen’s 
return to Cardozza, which politically was much to be desired, 
but which in face of her unwillingness was very difficult to 
manage. However, in the end, her consent was secured; the 
possibility of seeing the Prince more frequently may have 
influenced her. 

Her consent, however, was not the only difficulty. It 
was necessary not only that she should return, but that the 
return should be as public and impressive as possible—no 
Royal fugitive creeping back to a shaken throne but a Queen 
returning to her capital as a token of pardon to her rebellious 
subjects. There were still ferment and factions which fore¬ 
boded danger to her personally, but which danger again could 
not be ousted save by her presence and outward demonstra¬ 
tion of her unbroken power. It was a cruel dilemma, and 
the Prince must have had good reason for his decision. 
Events proved him right but also demanded of him or of his 
family heavy sacrifice. 


338 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


On April 4th, the Countess writes: 

“The return is fixed for April 14th, ten days hence. 
Heaven grant all goes well. Ardemil insists that the Prince 
is right and it is necessary, but he is clearly apprehensive of 
possible trouble. Frankly I told them all that I did not 
believe the Queen's reason would survive any further shock 
of riot or disaster. 

“ ‘No,' said the Prince quietly. 'We must eliminate the 
possibility.' 

“We were all seated round the fire discussing it, the Queen 
having retired. 

“ ‘It is not organized trouble I fear,' said Ardemil; ‘but 
individual rash action. Who drives with her beside your¬ 
self, Prince?' 

“ ‘I do,' said Max. 

“Instantly Countess Philippa put her hand on his arm: 

“ ‘Then I go too,' she announced fiercely. 

“And they all stared at her, and Max caught her hand and 
kissed it. She went on eagerly. 

“ ‘It is far the best thing there should be another woman 
with her, and they won’t hurt Count Max’s wife! They 
didn’t before.’ 

“ ‘They shall have no chance, my dear,’ cried Max. ‘I’d 
never permit it.’ 

“ ‘But you must—Think how it safeguards her,' urged 
Philippa. 

“ ‘Impossible! Paul, you know it is, say so!’ And he 
turned to the Prince with entreating eyes. 

“But the Prince got up, and, pushing the logs together 
with one foot, said: 

“ ‘Yes, it’s impossible—and yet she’s right, Max!' 

“ ‘There!' exclaimed the Countess defiantly. ‘You see, 
Max! Either it's not safe for the Queen to go or it's safe 
for me.’ 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


339 


“But even as she said it, she got a lovely color for she 
knew it was not the same. It was the journey and the strain 
for her at this time that was weighing on us, otherwise it 
was only too true. Count Max is almost as great an idol 
of the people as the Prince, and his wife’s presence would 
ensure respect and order in the most turbulent crowd. Even 
when they came down here, rumors of their starting got 
about and flowers and green wreaths were hung on the car¬ 
riage and flung in at the windows; and they cheered her when 
she leaned forward to thank them. 

“Ardemil insisted on my going away to bed. 

“ ‘They must settle it themselves,’ he said grimly when 
we were alone. ‘I’m glad it’s not my wife in question.’ I 
pointed out that I thought the Countess’s wish to go was 
quite as much a fear of being separated from her husband 
as desire to serve the Queen, which annoyed him. Men are 
so oddly blind! In her place I’d want to do the same, after 
what occurred on their last separation, but these men won’t 
see that. They’ll just go thinking only of the Queen. If 
she had given her real reason they’d have laughed at her. 
Still, as it’s Max and not Charles that’s in question, I think 
she ought not to go!” 

But the Countess Philippa got her way. She undertook 
the tiring journey and the really terrible nervous strain of 
the public entrance, and so far as the public knew there was 
no disturbance at all. 

The Prince sat by the Queen, and Countess Philippa and 
Count Max opposite. Just outside the House of Assembly 
the carriage stopped for the salute of the Royal Guards, and 
the crowd, who had been ominously silent and sullen all the 
way along, became restive. The Queen was looking at the 
Prince, the Prince keeping her attention away from the peo¬ 
ple, but the Countess was watching the crowd and some one 


340 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


levelled a pistol at the Queen. It was knocked up instantly 
and the man thrust back, and a woman's voice cried out: 

“Shame, Shame! It’s the Countess!” 

The carriage moved on, and the Countess had not moved 
nor said anything. Her husband put his arm round her and 
she smiled at him. 

The Queen was safely installed in the Breda Palace, lent 
by the Duchess of Alquarto at the Prince’s request, until such 
time as the Royal Palace should again be ready for occupa¬ 
tion. 

But that night the hopes of an heir for the House of Aren- 
zano were, for the time being, shattered. 

Ill 

The Queen once more in the capital, the Prince’s inter¬ 
course with her quickly assumed a different character. He 
restricted himself to the formal visits obligatory on even an 
overworked Minister, never saw her except in the presence 
of her ladies and in every way sought to stamp out any 
spark of gossip which her escape and her sojourn at Aren- 
zano might occasion. It was doubtless necessary. More¬ 
over, though the throes of the Revolution had overthrown 
many things, they had not overthrown the Prince’s pride. 
It might have been shaken to its foundations but the foun¬ 
dations were firmly established. It is quite easy to find mo¬ 
tives for his attitude, in spite of the self-revelation which 
those terrible days must have brough to him. But it is more 
difficult to understand the Queen’s acceptance of it. Pos¬ 
sibly with her return to Cardozza recollections became too 
vivid for her, and her shattered courage could not face a 
fresh rebuff from the man who had saved her. In any case, 
we gather from the Countess Ardemil’s letters that she ex¬ 
pressed no dissatisfaction though she undoubtedly suffered. 

The Countess writes (with less than her usual discre- 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


341 


tion) : “I would give much to see her (the Queen) flash out 
with her old spirit at His Highness’s formal, deferential 
manner. What’s between them that she makes no effort to 
retain what was evidently the very savour of life to her? It 
may be politic on his part, but when did politics ever in¬ 
fluence her!” 

Yet it was politics that was to alter the situation in the 
end! 

Neither the National Assembly nor the Council of State 
considered enough had been done for the permanent estab¬ 
lishment of the country. The Queen was profoundly mis¬ 
trusted and her attitude towards her rebellious people did 
not serve to help matters. 

The Royal Palace was ready for her occupation at the end 
of September. Every effort was made to interest her in her 
re-installation but she remained entirely apathetic. Nor could 
she be induced to drive in the town or be seen anywhere in 
public. All these did not tend to increase her popularity, 
for outside her immediate circle there was neither knowledge 
nor appreciation of her mental collapse, and even the nobles 
seem to have thought of her as nursing a bitter resentment, 
and only awaiting opportunities to actively retaliate on those 
who had either deserted or betrayed her. Meetings were held 
and discussions took place behind the back of her Chief 
Minister, and everywhere—in slum, in street, in Palace— 
was heard the whisper: ‘‘The Prince must stay! We want 
the Prince, not a woman!’’ 

He set his face like steel against these whispers. In every 
way he sought to re-establish the authority of the Crown as 
it had stood, but the united voice of the people was too strong, 
and on November 11th, the Council of State, at which he 
was presiding, was asked to receive a deputation from the 
National Assembly who, in plain terms, put two propositions 
before the Chief Minister. 


342 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


Either Queen Tessa must abdicate and he must take the 
throne himself, or he must marry her and save the dynasty 
by ruling in her stead! One way or the other way must be 
chosen, the country refused to be at the mercy of a woman’s 
whims. 

The Prince struggled fiercely. He was willing to pledge 
his honor that he would not desert the country again even 
against the Queen’s will. He must have felt the ironic humor 
of that, knowing her pitiful dependence on him. But it was 
no use. They wanted more. They were sick of the dynasty, 
they wanted a d’Arenzano on the throne. If he would not 
accept it, they still refused to have the present occupant. 

He fought for delay, pointing out her recent widowhood. 
They replied simply that desperate situations could take no 
heed of sentiment, and time was the one thing they would 
not grant him. 

He urged on them the ingratitude of their behavior after 
what he had done, and they returned they could hardly evince 
greater gratitude than by offering him the Crown itself, 
which was the course they much preferred him to take; 
whereupon he broke into storm and swore that nothing would 
induce him to such an act of treachery. 

‘‘Then marry her,” said Ardemil bluntly. 

In the end he agreed with grim brevity to lay the matter 
before Her Majesty, and abide by her decision. 

“I warn you,” he said, “that in pressing the point of re¬ 
marriage on her at such a time, with a man too, so greatly 
her senior, you are merely forcing her to abdicate, in which 
case I wash my hands of Romanzia forever.” 

They accepted the situation with curious complacency, for 
men who had urged so hotly the necessity of his continuing 
to rule. One is tempted to the thought that the Countess 
Ardemil’s intimacy with the Queen and Ardemil’s ascendancy 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


343 


in the Council point to a better knowledge of the broken wo¬ 
man s state of mind than the Prince himself possessed. 

He left the Council before it actually dispersed, saying 
he would send his decision in the morning, and he went back 
to the Orense Palace. Dermier—back again in his old place 
—tells us that he seemed oddly broken, neither savage nor 
morose, but with a look in his eyes that brought tears to the 
heart. 

For long hours the Prince paced his rom, trying to come 
to a decision which evaded him. He ruthlessly tried to stamp 
out the immediate past, those moments in the milliner’s shop, 
the terrified woman in the empty Orense Palace, the fright¬ 
ened child who had clung to him through the long night 
journey. These things he told himself were the outcome of 
circumstances and no criterion of existing facts. Had she 
not readily accepted his tacit offer to cancel their significance 
in the return to formal relationship? He would not be 
swayed—nor let her—by impulses arising from a terrible 
experience. 

Yet behind all this and behind the sharp will of the coun¬ 
try and the alternative imposed on him, other pictures would 
rise, recollections of a defiant child, a little warm hearted 
friend, an intrepid girl with wings poised for far flight, a 
woman who lay in his arms wounded, and smiled at him 
through her pain; and behind that again a veil which he 
had never allowed himself to lift, hiding possibilities of a 
great passion and hunger, bursting into flame and falling 
into dead ashes, unfed and unsatisfied. 

If what he had chosen to believe a girlish passion, had been 
indeed the generous love of a woman he had a key, which 
he till now had deliberately refused to use, with which to 
unlock the meaning of the past disastrous four years. Now 
having trodden out the flame he must beg for mere ashes to 


344 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


prove his right to save for her the empty shell of her royal 
dignity! 

She would refuse. It was inconceivable to him that she 
could do anything else. The woman who had sought healing 
to her wounded pride and rejected love by such devastating 
means was not likely to forget the origin of her ruined life. 
Yet he must ask and she must refuse! 

It would mean her abdication—and his! 

The point towards which his mind groped persistently 
was: could he save her life once that abdication was achieved? 
His political sense was too strong not to recognize the danger 
her continued existence must be to Romanzia. In whatever 
country she might find shelter she would ever be a focus for 
fresh revolutions. Her will would count as nothing. There 
were plenty of men in Romanzia who would see this besides 
himself. Abdication ran perilously near assassination. Had 
he stemmed the Revolution and quieted the tumult, and set 
her on her throne again in vain ? 

The future was as harassing as the past. 

Had he accepted that brave and generous offer of herself 
four years ago, by now Romanzia would have been in the 
high tide of prosperity, and the voices that might have 
mocked at his honor and his disinterestedness might have 
been silenced before success. 

It was useless cursing his own blindness. He had acted 
as he had thought right. That it had torn his heart to shreds 
to do it was his sole consolation. If she had suffered, he had 
suffered too. 

He sent word to the Council the next morning that 
he would comply with their wishes so far as laying their 
proposition before the Queen, but only on the condition that 
no pressure should be brought to bear on her, or indeed any 
mention of the matter made to her except by himself. He 
also sent to ask an audience of Her Majesty at four o’clock, 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


345 


and this done he went out alone on horseback, and did not 
return until it was time to go to the Palace. 

The Queen received him in her private boudoir as she had 
four years ago on a similar autumn day. Her whim for the 
restoration of this room had been most carefully carried out, 
and the Prince himself experienced something of a shock to 
see her standing there in unchanged surroundings, only her 
black dress and aged face to mark the space of time so over¬ 
filled with terrible experiences. 

“Why did you send, Paul?” she asked a little wearily. 
“You know you can always see me.” 

“As your friend, yes—but as your Minister?” 

He still stood. She frowned a little and seated herself on 
the sofa. 

“My Minister exists to keep my Ministry from me; come 
and sit down.” 

But though he came nearer he did not sit. He stood, 
looking at her in the firelight, striving to disentangle two 
pictures which overlapped each other in his mind. 

“It is my purpose—to say to you what your Ministry in¬ 
sist on saying if I do not. I ask you to believe that nothing 
but the knowledge that what I am deputed to say comes more 
fittingly from me than from others forces me to it. That, 
and the knowledge that all that has been achieved in the past 
year will go for nothing unless you hear me.” 

“You are frightening me, Paul! Come here, near me!” 

She sat up staring at him, and holding out her hands. 

“You need not be frighened.” His voice was very gentle. 
“It is I who should be that. Briefly, Madame, the case stands 
thus. Your Council and your country are yet unsatisfied as 
to permanent peace; they do me the poor honor to believe I 
cannot maintain it without still greater authority, though I 
have pledged my honor to uphold the Constitution as it 
stands.” 


346 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


She got up now, her eyes brightening. 

'‘They want my abdication?” 

There was a little silence; she walked across the room to 
the still uncurtained window and looked out. 

“Is that all? Do you think it is so difficult?” She did 
not look round. 

“It is not all. It is not even what they want or wish. It 
is only the alternative they insist on.” 

“Well, what do they want?” She was looking at him now 
with fierce anxiety. 

Were words ever so difficult to utter?—words expressing 
so baldly the furious hunger in his heart! 

“They desire that Your Majesty should again marry.” 

She broke into a sharp laugh and looked out of the win¬ 
dow again. 

“Really? Who—this time?” 

“I have the honor, Madame, to announce to you your 
Council's wish that you will consent to accept the hand of 
your Chief Minister.” 

Quite slowly she turned and leaned on the back of a chair, 
her hands shaking pitifully. 

He looked steadily at the ground and went on speaking. 

“That is what your Council deputes me to say. What I 
have to say myself is this, that if you, Madame, could by the 
greatness of your woman’s soul endure to consider this thing, 
I, understanding the sacrifice you are making, swear that so 
far as it lies in man to govern his fate, you shall never have 

cause to repent it, that-” His voice failed. He stood 

there, staring at the floor—silent. 

How could he plead? He had seen her face brighten at 
the mere thought of this abdication from which he would 
save her. 

Her voice came so quietly across the space between them 



TO SAVE HER CROWN 


347 


that it hardly broke the stillness. It was oddly subdued and 
wistful. 

“You have taught me, Paul, that the only rule of life for 
those who are so unhappy as to wear a crown, is duty. It 
is not always easy to know where it lies. Tell me—now.” 

But he groaned. 

“No, no. I dare not. You must find out yourself.” 

“Then, Prince, will you tell my Council I am pleased to 
accept the hand of my Chief Minister.” 

Her voice faltered, and, having spoken, she bit her lip and 
turned again to the window. This then was the end of their 
long silent struggle. She had won. He would marry her— 
to save her Crown! It was a matter of duty. 

Yet, even so, her need of him was so great that she must 
take what was offered, though it was like warming her frozen 
hands over dead ashes. Slow difficult tears welled up to her 
eyes. She seemed to stand on the verge of an immense 
loneliness that wanted to engulf her, where neither voice of 
man nor God would sound forever. 

“Tessa F 

The one word came to her across space, calling her back, 
vibrating with love, urgent, passionate—tender! 

She saw him clearly for the first time, standing there, 
waiting, compelling—and with a little cry she ran to the 
shelter of his arms, safe from the loneliness forever. 

IV 

They were married in January. However private the 
actual ceremony might be, nothing could have exceeded the 
spontaneous joy of the people, who celebrated the event with 
bonfires and decorations and feastings. The Prince and his 
wife cared little, for they knew nothing. They set out im¬ 
mediately after the ceremony for Arenzano, or rather 
Orense, for he took her first to a small castellated hunting 


348 


CHRONICLES OF A GREAT PRINCE 


lodge, high up in the mountains. The snow was deep round 
them but the pines were a rampart against the winds, and 
the sun shone, and covered the white ground with jewels; 
and the clean sharpness of the air seemed to sing in chorus 
with the blue sky. And they tramped up and down the 
mountain paths, and drove in sledges through miles of silent, 
whispering forest, and found the frozen source of the stream. 
And in the evening they sat by the great wood fires, and she 
wore the gown of costly white fur he had given her, and 
color came back to the white face, and peace to her terrified 
eyes. 

But on the first evening as she sat before the fire in her 
white fur robe, she said to him: 

“Paul, how was it you came to me at all at that dreadful 
time?” 

“Max sent for me,” he answered huskily. 

“And you just came?” 

He was silent a moment, and then took out a little leather 
case from his pocket, and from that a folded paper, and put 
it in her hands. As she opened it he went on his kness before 
her and hid his face against her. 

“Tessa,” he whispered. “Let me make my confession, and 
think of me what you will. That was his second call—I 
refused the first!” 

The note was but a line and it ran : 

“Paul, if she is to be saved, you must come —Max.” 

Her hands touched his head caressingly. She thought 
with tenderness how grey it was growing. 

“And you came for that?” 

“God forgive me, but it took that to bring me!” 

“Only that—after all I’d done?” 

Then more swiftly, to stop the protest, she went on: 

“There is something else I must ask, Paul; that day when 


TO SAVE HER CROWN 


349 


they flung names at me, why did you tell them they lied? I 
must know, Paul!” Her voice was urgent. 

He raised his head and looked straight into her eyes. 

“Did you ever think you could deceive me —I knew!” 

At that she gave a little cry and, catching his hands, kissed 
them. 

“That is faith,” she whispered, half to herself. 

“No—Love!” he answered. 

Outside the snow fell anew and blotted out the footsteps 
that had soiled its white radiance. 

V 

Thus after stress and storm the great Prince found for a 
time a haven of refuge in a woman’s love, where he might 
re-gather his strength, his ambitions, his faith and prepare 
to pilot his country again to the harbor of her destiny. 

Not yet was the voyage over, not yet the far-off dreams 
of his boyhood realized, but he himself had found that which 
he had not sought and out of the vast sea of circumstances 
had attracted to himself that which was his and from which 
he might not be safely sundered. 

Here let us leave him for the time in security and peace. 
A man fashioned on the anvil of the gods, pre-destined for 
great purposes, great joys, great sorrows, great virtues, great 
sins. A man to whom, in spite of his faults, men gave their 
loyal devotion and women, instinctive affection and who in 
his awn country is ever known by the one title—The Great 
Prince! 


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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



























































































































































